Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 44)

Chapter 16 Part V

Cindy Bradford
It was almost six o’clock when Carol arrived at Fredrico and Marc’s, exhausted but pleased that she had been able to find the perfect dress.

One ring of the doorbell and the door sprang open.

“Carol, my dear Carol. Come in. The drinks are chilling,” Marc half shrieked, hugging her. Fredrico instantly joined them.

“Patrick just called. He got our number from Nancy. He said he would try again in half an hour. I assured him you would be along soon.”

“I forgot last night to tell him where I’d be. Did he sound all right?”

“I don’t know how he usually sounds,” Fredrico said quite animatedly, “but he didn’t appear suicidal or anything, Darling.”

“Freddy, you’re awful. He just lost his mother.”

“I was merely answering your question, love. Now, go sit down and I’ll bring you a chilled glass of the usual. I need to help Marc in the kitchen a few minutes.”

Carol sat down in the tufted Queen Anne chair and waited for what she knew would be Dom Perignon. She felt comfortable as always in their apartment. It had been a refuge when she lived in the city. A cocoon she could crawl into when life wasn’t exactly what she wanted it to be. She looked around at the familiar setting and began to relax.

The phone startled her.

“Would you get that for me darling girl?” Marc called.

Carol reached for the white antique telephone, “Hello.”

“Carol?”

“Oh, Patrick, I’m so sorry I forgot to tell you that I was coming here tonight.”

“That’s okay. I would have just left a message with Nancy as to what time to meet me in Boston, but I wanted to ask you something. Scott called and said he would do the services Sunday for me so I have that covered. I don’t want to leave here very early tomorrow, but if I don’t, it will be really late when we get back. I thought maybe you would rather not have to catch the train really early either. So why don’t I pick you up at about 3:00 p.m. at the station. I checked the train schedule. I think it actually arrives at 3:06 p.m. We’ll have a nice dinner in Boston and I know a quaint little Bed and Breakfast just outside the city on our way home where we can spend the night or if you prefer we can stay in a hotel on the harbor, if there’s a room available.”

“Patrick, that sounds great, either way. But, first, how are you?”

“I’m better now than any time since I arrived. I’m anxious to see you and get back to Maine. I hate to leave Dad, but that has to happen. Joey and Rose Marie will be close, so that helps.”

Another reason Patrick didn’t want to leave early was so he would have time to stop at a travel agency in Boston before going to the train station. His plan was to surprise Carol with a trip to Vienna, Austria, for their honeymoon. Although she had traveled to many European cities, she had somehow missed Vienna and she had mentioned wanting to go there, to see the opera and the Schoenbrunn Castle.

“This will work out well. It will give me time to get my things together in the morning and not have to rush so much. I’m excited to see you, Patrick. I have missed you so much. This is the first time we have been apart like this, you know.”

“I know, and I worry about you in the City.”

“Patrick! I lived here, remember?”

“Yes, but anything can happen. So be careful going back to Nancy’s tonight. Have fun though with your friends Fredrico and Marc. What are you having for dinner?”

“I’m not sure, but it’ll be special I know.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

Fredrico walked in with hors d’oeuvres. Marc followed closely behind with another plate.

“Okay, Darling, I have peppered tuna skewers with wasabi mayonnaise on watercress,” Fredrico answered.

“And, I, my dear,” Marc fluttered, “have southwest tomatillo duck triangles and these are just some roasted almonds with rosemary and fleur de sel to snack on.”

“As always you two out did yourselves. This alone could be dinner.” She tasted a tuna skewer, “mmmm,” as she mouthed the word “perfect.”

As they talked and laughed, catching up on missed times, Marc poured her more champagne and then another glass for himself.

“What are you drinking, Freddy?”

“A gin rickey, my latest obsession.”

Carol laughed, knowing Fredrico was forever changing his drinks and trying something new.

“Would you like one of these?”

“No Freddy,” she said quite emphatically, “are you trying to kill me? I think I will just drink my champagne for now. This tuna is delicious and the duck, yummy.”

“Darling, we have a proposition for you.”

“Uh…oh, this could be scary,” she said, laughing.

“Marc and I want to come early to Maine and do all the decorations for the wedding and the food and decorations for the reception as our present to you and Patrick.”

Stunned, but not really surprised, because these guys had always been so good to her, Carol listened to their plan, knowing they would do a wonderful job although many of the guests might not know what they were eating. “That is so sweet of you two, but that is too much to ask.”

“You are not asking, we are telling you.” Before she could say more he continued, “Good, then it’s decided. We will be there two days early. Is there a good place to buy flowers close? Oooh, this is going to be so much fun.” He clapped his hands together.

“I think I know just the place for flowers in Hidden Harbor, but I’ll go over next week to be sure. If you insist, we will be honored and forever grateful to you, but that is a big undertaking.”

“We are up to it, Darling.”

“Okay then. You can stay with me. I’m so excited. You two are such good friends. I love you,” she said, tearing up.

“Now stop that and have some more champagne while I get dinner on the table.”

Carol looked at the dinner and thought it looked truly delightful: baked snapper with potatoes, oregano with white wine, green beans with Dijon mustard and caramelized shallots, and an apple, onion and walnut salad with cider dressing.

Marc poured a Pouilly-Fuisse′.

When they had finished, he said, “Let’s go on the veranda and visit a bit before we have the Black Forrest Boule-de-Neige.”

“Marc, I am stuffed. I don’t know where I would put cake. I won’t be able to get in my wedding dress, if I keep eating like this.”

“Let’s have a little coffee. You must taste a small piece. It is a new recipe with kirsch in the cake and also in the whipping cream; I made it yesterday because the cake part has to sit overnight.”

“Tell us about your dress,” Fredrico pressed.

“I bought it today.”

“Let’s see. You have it with you?”

“That’s bad luck, but I’ll tell you about it. It is really quite simple, an antique white, silk jersey, strapless, mermaid sheath. There are hundreds of the same fabric gardenias appliquéd down the back and a chapel length train. I also selected the matching short jacket beaded with mother of pearl. It has leg o’mutton sleeves.”

“It sounds splendid. You will be the stunning one. I am already getting giddy about this wedding,” added Marc. “May we have carte blanche with our choices of food for the reception or do you want to choose?”

Smiling, Carol said, “Of course, you can do as you like. I trust you completely. Just remember these are not New Yorkers or very fancy people.”

“They will be when we finish,” Marc giggled.

Thinking it first to herself, she then said, “This could be interesting.”

“Now, let’s eat cake!” Marc brought out a snowball of a cake decorated with candied violet petals.

“You two amaze me. Where do you get these ideas?”

“We are just naturals, Darling. At least he is,” Fredrico said smiling at Marc. “And he is handsome as well as talented; what more could a man want?”

“Mmmm, this cake is sinful,” Carol gushed.

“Good, I am pleased you like it,” replied Marc.

Carol asked, “Marc how is Renaissance?” Carol loved to walk around in his antique store, always amazed at the unique selections, items from all over the world, usually very, very expensive, but one of a kind.

“It is wonderful. I just received the most ornate and elegant armoire from Nice. I have a client in mind. She only wants the best and she is supposed to come to the city from her weekend home in the Hamptons later this week.”

“If you have time, on the way to the wedding, you should stop at some of the small shops along the way. You might be surprised with some of the finds. I bought an Eastlake chair recently when I visited Camden. I thought it was a steal, especially since I rarely see them anymore. The shop itself was charming.”

“That trip we’ll only be thinking of one thing…wedding bells.”

“My turn, Markie,” Fredrico said, cutting in. “Your hair is stunning, Carol Darling. You’ve had it cut since yesterday. Did you see Sergio?”

“Yes, and he sent his love to you two.”

“We have not seen him in a while, but he always makes it to the showings at the gallery. He is quite talented with the scissors and a great fan of all the arts.”

Picking up her empty glass, Carol said, “I absolutely hate to say goodnight. This has been so much fun, but I have to get up early and get everything packed to leave. Marc, may I help clean up?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Then I must get my things.” She stood and walked over to hug each friend.

“We understand. We’re just so glad we had this chance to see you. We’ll keep in touch about the wedding plans.”

“If I can do anything in advance to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

“We’ll take care of everything, but do check on the availability of what flowers you want.”

“Markie, I will go down with Carol and hail a cab while you pick up the dishes.”

“Goodnight, dear,” Marc said, kissing her.

“Carol, don’t forget your portfolio. I’ll carry it. I can’t wait to hear what the lucky groom thinks about your photographs.”

“I’m anxious to show him too,” she mused, as they stepped out of the elevator.

“Goodnight my darling friend,” Fredrico said, giving her his traditional kiss on both cheeks, while the taxi driver waited impatiently.

“Goodnight love, and thanks for everything.” When she got into the taxi; she realized just how tired and full she was. Those guys exhaust me, they are so energetic. “I need to go to 300 East 75^th Street. If I fall asleep, please wake me,” she told the driver, and immediately she dozed off.

It was after 10:30 p.m. when she opened the door and thinking everyone was asleep, she tiptoed down the hall to the room where she was sleeping.

“Well, what did they serve?” Nancy’s voice startled her. “Come on, you didn’t think I could wait until morning to hear about dinner, did you?”

Putting her packages and portfolio down, she squeezed in close to her friend on the couch. “It was quintessential Marc and Fredrico. You’ll feel stuffed just hearing about it!”

≈≈≈

The next morning there was just time enough time for Nancy and Carol to visit over a cup of coffee before Nancy and Hannah left for a birthday party and Carol for the train.

“Nest time, I’m sweeping wif you, Arol.”

“Okay sweetie, next time you can sleep with me. I will even read you a bedtime story. How about that?”

“Yippee, when?”

“I am not sure, but hopefully it will not be too long,” though Carol could not even imagine when she would get to do this kind of trip again. In two months she would be married and settled in again to life in rural Maine.

“Thank you for a wonderful time, Nance. I’ll keep in touch about the wedding. Tell Sophia to do your dress superbly.”

“I feel bad having mine made when you’re not, but you know she does such a good job for me. I promise not to look better than the bride though,” she said, teasing Carol.

The truth was that Nancy, who wore more make-up and had her hair styled often, was more attractive than Carol. She liked elegant, stylish clothes while Carol was content with slacks and sweaters. Though different in many of their preferences, the two women were comfortable with their individuality and showed complete understanding of each others’ likes and dislikes.

“I doubt that, but it’s okay because Hannah is going to upstage both of us!”

“You’re probably right.”

As the time approached for each woman to get in a taxi and go their separate directions, they hugged and then Carol hugged Hannah. “You be a sweet girl and mind Mommy about you know what. Remember, real panties for a flower girl,” she prodded, trying to help Nancy who was having a terrible time potty training Hannah and feared Marie was a being a little lax with her. When she complained, Marie casually answered, “She will do it when she gets tired of a wet bottom, Ms. Nancy.”

“Otay Arol, Bye.”

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 43)

Chapter 16 Part IV

Cindy Bradford
When they arrived at the apartment, Hannah was waiting. “She would not even take a nap,” the housekeeper said. “She is so excited that she is getting a ‘birfday pwesent!” Marie, who had worked for Nancy since before Hannah was born, was a short, round Puerto Rican woman about fifty years old who talked fast with a strong accent. It was obvious that she loved Hannah.

It will be a miracle if Hannah ever learns correct pronunciation, Carol thought.

Because Marie was so dependable, Nancy never worried about going places and leaving Hannah with her.

Wrinkling her nose, she said, “It sure smells good in here, Marie. What are you cooking?”

Marie answered, referring to her boss as she always did, “Ms. Nancy, it’s your favorite: Roasted New York Strip loin with adobe rub, roasted potatoes with rosemary, green beans with julienne carrots and ham. I told Mr. David what I was cooking and he said he would pick up the wine.”

“Arol, Arol, is that mine?”

“Yes, sweetie.” There was no time to wrap the stuffed animal, and Carol was not sure how she would have disguised it anyway so she was actually relieved Hannah had seen its head sticking out of the huge sack. Pushing it toward her, she said, “Happy birthday, little angel.”

“I wove it!” Hannah fell onto it on the floor and gave it a big hug.

“We’ll show her the dress and shoes later. I’m not sure she’d be impressed right now,” Nancy said, making her way over to the wet bar and asking, “How about a martini?”

“That sounds wonderful. I don’t remember the last one.”

“Straight up and dirty?”

“You have a good memory.” Carol sat on the long white tapestry couch and took off her shoes, wriggling her tired toes.

“That’s not something I could forget. Remember when we first learned to drink them?” Nancy laughed.

“Yes, but I would rather not,” Carol said. “I wasn’t a pretty sight that next day.”

“We are a little more mature now, I hope.”

“So do I. That would kill me now.”

Hannah had fallen asleep on “Mr. Wong Neck” as she had already named him, a name Nancy was sure would change at least twenty times.

“That is what I was afraid of, Ms. Nancy. I tried to get her to take a nap.”

“That’s all right Marie; we can have our drinks quietly.”

“Everything is ready and the table is set. Would you like for me to stay and serve?”

“No, no Marie. Carol is family. I will handle it from here.” Nancy knew Marie had her daughter, grandson and mother-in-law at her house, plus a less than energetic husband, so she always tried to let her leave as early as possible. Though Marie never complained except to say there were a lot of people in a small, cramped space, Nancy knew she probably had to clean and cook when she arrived home. Some days she would suggest to Marie to make extra food and take it home, especially if it were something she could carry easily on the subway. Marie, who had worked hard all her life, reminded Nancy often that no matter how difficult her life, she was glad to be in the United States. Often she would say, “My family happy here. Good people. Muy bueno, Senora.”

By the time they had their second martini, their conversation had drifted to the wedding and Patrick.

“So, tell me more about this hubby to be.”

“Oh Nancy, he’s wonderful, though I admit a little complex.”

“Explain.”

“I’m not sure I can. He’s the most thoughtful, loving man I have ever known, but sometimes he acts…I don’t know…removed, distant, and perhaps absorbed in another life that I’m not in.”

“Well, that’s not good. Have you talked about it?”

“I tried, but it just seems to make things worse. He goes further into a shell. It’s always…” She paused, a little embarrassed. “He gets that way sometimes after we have had the most passionate love making.”

“That’s strange. I didn’t think men even thought after sex!”

Carol laughed, feeling a little guilty for bringing up the subject. “Anyway, that’s one minor, tiny flaw,” she said, trying not to let her apprehension show.

“Speaking of, I think I’d better try to call him before I drink any more martinis.”

Patrick answered on the first ring, surprised to hear Carol’s voice.

“How are you dear?” Carol asked.

“I’m better. It’s good to see everyone though I dread tomorrow. I’ll be glad when the funeral is over. We are having the mass at 10:00 in the morning and a small service at the graveside. The wake is tonight. There will be a lot of people, I’m sure.”

“How is your dad?”

“He’s better, but not great. He is really taking this hard. I think it was just so quick. He knew Mom was really sick, but I just don’t think he ever dreamed that she would die this soon. My sister Margaret is having a difficult time, too. Well, everyone is, but she was probably Mom’s favorite because she was her namesake, the oldest girl, and they have always been close. There are little kids everywhere. I don’t even remember all their names. I told my brothers that these Irish Catholics need to slow down or we’re going to have another population explosion. I thought most professional people, even Catholics, used contraceptives now, but apparently not in this family.”

Carol laughed, glad that he was able to have a sense of humor during a time she knew was difficult for him.

“Carol, I hope you are having a good time.”

“Yes, Patrick, I am but I miss you. I even told Nancy that I was ready to get back to Maine. I wanted to hear your voice, but I won’t keep you on the phone.”

“I’m glad, Carol. I miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye, I love you.”

“I love you, Patrick.”

After sharing two bottles of wine over dinner, Carol yawned. “I think I’ll excuse myself.”

“I think I am ready, too. Shopping is hard on us. See you in the morning,” Nancy added.

Turning to David, Carol said, “Your wine choices were splendid.”

“Thanks. They are some of the new Super Tuscans. I think they paired well, don’t you?”

“I think they were wonderful,” Carol said sleepily. “I have not had this much to drink in awhile. Goodnight all.”

The next morning, Carol woke at 9:00 to the smell of cranberry muffins and coffee. She pulled on her robe and hastily went into the kitchen, regretting she had slept so late.

“Good Morning, Ms. Carol. You must have slept well.”

“I did, Marie,” Carol responded, “I’m usually up by 6:30. I guess the wine did the trick. Your dinner was delicious and I don’t remember sleeping as well in years.”

“Thank you. I have had a time keeping Hannah from waking you.”

About that time Hannah came bounding into the kitchen dragging the giraffe that was a foot taller than the little girl. “Hi Arol, wanna pway?”

“Sure, just let me have a little coffee, first.”

“What are your plans today?” Nancy asked, as she walked into the breakfast room dressed in a beautiful cherry silk suit, with her make-up on and every hair in place.

Carol, still in her satin robe, looked up. “I feel terrible for being so lazy.”

“I’m just glad you rested. Now quit worrying.” She reached to squeeze Carol’s hand.

Carol sighed, “I wish I had called Sergio before I came. I would love to get my hair cut, but I know he’s been booked for months. Do you think I dare call?”

“Carol, he will be so glad to see you, he’ll miss his tofu lunch for you.”

Carol laughed and reached for the phone.

Nancy grabbed the receiver, “I’ll call for you. If there is a choice, what time will be good for you?”

“It doesn’t really matter. I want to order wedding invitations at Bloomberg’s. If I could find a dress for the wedding, I would be delighted. If not, I’ll have to go to Portland soon. I’m just not sure I have enough time today to really shop since I am getting such a late start so I’ll take an appointment anytime.”

“I can’t believe you aren’t having something made at Goldstein’s.”

“I know Nance, but I really want something simple, since the wedding is going to be small and the reception will be outside. Plus, most of the people there are frugal, simple, and hardworking. I don’t want to come across as a snob from the city. And, Patrick would not be comfortable with my being too fancy.”

“Okay it’s your wedding, but I can probably get Sophia to measure you, and you could select the fabric today.”

“Thanks Nance, but I’ll find something.”

Just as Nancy had predicted, Sergio was indeed, delighted, making an appointment for Carol at noon.

“Carol, unless you need me, I think I’ll stay here. Is that okay?”

“Sure, I think I’m going to be scurrying from one place to the next. If I’m running late I’ll just go straight to Fredrico and Marc’s. Otherwise, I’ll be back to freshen up. I’ll call you. If Patrick calls, tell him I’m sorry I forgot to tell him where I was going. Ask him what time I am supposed to be in Boston, in case I miss him tonight. And don’t wait up tonight.”

Nancy smiled. She had heard that for four years at college and although they always told each other that, one waited up for the other anyway.

An hour later, Carol was on her way. The city was bustling, teeming with cars, buses and people scrambling for their place, moving at top speed in the crowded maze. It took her almost thirty minutes to get to the sprawling department store where people were lined up at every register to pay for their purchases. Carol felt oddly out of place. Feeling the pressure of the fast pace, she hurriedly narrowed her invitation selection down to two and completed the information form while the sales clerk impatiently waited.

“I want to show these samples to my fiancé, and I’ll call next week with the one we choose. Will that be okay?”

“Certainly,” the woman nodded. She appeared to be either bored or distracted, Carol wasn’t sure which, but she didn’t have time to contemplate. Placing the ivory-colored textured paper in her purse, she rushed through the crush of shoppers and headed the two blocks to Sergio’s. Whatever made me crazy enough to think I could do all this in one day, she thought.

Carol stepped into the salon and immediately felt calmer. Sergio met her with a glass of champagne and a kiss.

“I’ve missed you Darling,” he said softly.

Carol had forgotten how good she always felt when she had her hair cut. She wasn’t sure if it was the serene atmosphere of the salon, peppered with vanilla candles, a Mozart symphony playing softly and Sergio’s individual attention or the down time. Maybe it was the champagne. Whatever, it didn’t matter, she felt renewed, ready to face the ugly crowds again to look for a wedding dress.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 41)

Chapter 16 Part II

Cindy Bradford

When Patrick arrived in Boston, he went straight to the hospital. Stopping at the visitors’ desk for directions, he hurried to his mother’s room. When he turned the corner, Father Michael was walking out of the room. Patrick looked straight at the priest but said nothing, rushing past him. Immediately his worst fears were confirmed, Father Michael had been there to give last rites; his mother had passed away with his dad and Dr. Bennett at her bedside.

Patrick’s dad was crying, uncontrollably. Patrick had never seen his father like this. A kind man, but never very demonstrative, his career as a street cop hadn’t allowed for many emotions. Putting his arm around his dad, Patrick cried alongside him for a full five minutes. As he tried to choke back more tears, Joseph Sr. began rambling, “She seemed to be getting better. I sent the other kids home to get some rest. Andrew won’t be in until tonight. She took a turn for the worse. I called Father Michael and he came right over. She smiled at me and was gone so fast. Patrick, what am I going to do without her?”

Patrick wondered himself. They had been married thirty-five years, shared seven children and a life together. All he could see now was this big, tough, Irish man, hurting so much, looking small and much older than his sixty years. Seeing his dad like this broke Patrick’s heart as he cried for his dad’s loss, and for his own.

Patrick knew his mother had suffered so much in the last two years when the multiple sclerosis had taken its powerful grip. Although many people live with the disease for years his mother, who was only fifty-five, had not been so lucky.

Patrick walked outside the room into the hall. There, near the chapel, stood Father Michael. “Oh my Paddy, I’m so sorry my lad.”

Patrick’s face flushed red. “Don’t you ever call me that, again. I am not your Paddy or your lad. I never was! Let me tell you something else. Just because I’ve kept your secret, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.” Patrick heard his voice getting louder. He paused and gained some measure of control. “Now, leave before I say more than you can take.”

≈≈≈

When the phone rang in Nancy’s apartment at nine, David answered, “Oh, hello, Patrick. I’ve heard so much about you, I feel I know you. Let me get Carol for you. Good to talk with you.”

Taking the receiver, she whispered, “Hi, Darling.”

“Hi, I wanted to wait as late as I could so as not to disturb your visit and meal, but I needed to tell you, Mom died earlier today.”

“Oh, Patrick, I’m so sorry. I will rent a car and drive there tomorrow.”

“No, Carol. I want you to stay there. My brothers and sisters are here plus lots of aunts and uncles and friends. I’ll be okay. You stay there. The service will be Thursday and I’ll stay with Dad until Saturday morning. Can you find things to do until then?”

“Certainly, but are you sure you don’t want me to join you?”

“Carol, I really appreciate your caring, but I’ll be fine. You just have a good time with Nancy.”

“Okay love, if Nancy won’t kick me out, I’ll stay. Besides, Hannah has already shown me the room where I will be sleeping at least four times.”

Nancy laughed in the background.

Patrick asked, “So, how was the train ride? Long?”

“No, it was actually quite nice, a little more conversation than I wanted, but rather pleasant, all in all.”

“Good. Give my love to Nancy and I’ll call you sometime tomorrow. But don’t stay waiting. Go and do what you want. I’ll catch you sometime.”

“I love you, Patrick.”

“I love you, too. Sleep well.” The phone clicked and Carol was alone with her thoughts, if only for a minute.

“Night, Arol. I go to bed now.”

“Goodnight sweetheart. I’ll see you in my dreams,” as she reached down to kiss Hannah on the top of her head.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 40)

Chapter 16 Part I

Cindy Bradford

The minute Patrick heard his father’s voice on the phone he knew something was wrong.

“It’s your mother, Patrick. You need to get here.”

“Dad, slow down. What’s wrong?” He could hear his father’s sobs in the background.

“She’s dying. Can you hurry?”

Patrick looked at his watch. It was 4:00 a.m. “I’ll leave here by six o’clock. Dad, are you sure?”

His voice cracked. “The doctor says she might pull through, but he isn’t hopeful. Just come.”

“I will Dad. Will you tell her I’ll be there by noon?”

“Yes,” he answered softly, his voice breaking again and then the phone clicked.

He needed to call Carol to tell her, but first he needed to clear his head. For the longest time, he lay there not wanting to move. His mother had always been there. He couldn’t imagine her not. He wished the last few years hadn’t been strained. Even though they said they forgave him for leaving the Catholic Church, there was tenseness when they were together. They didn’t understand nor would they ever because they would never know the truth.

His parents’ relationship with Father Michael had continued for all these years, and they often mentioned how much they appreciated the way he talked so proudly of their children, but especially of Patrick. “He’s a fine lad” he would tell them. “I knew he would be a priest,” he often said to Joseph. After Patrick left the priesthood, Father Michael went to console them. “He’ll come back someday; I know he will in some capacity or the other. He’s a strong lad.” They told Patrick of their many conversations with their priest and how he prayed for Patrick. Patrick thought to himself, yeah, I’ll bet he does. I’ll bet he prays I’m forever silent.

Now he tried to focus on the good times with his family. His dad had worked long hours to make enough money to support his large and seemingly always growing family. A police officer in Boston, he also worked overtime as a security officer in one of the financial centers downtown and still had to drive thirty minutes to their small home, outside Boston. His mom had taken a nursing course and worked for a local doctor until John was born, a year and a half after they were married. He would soon be thirty-four. Andrew was born next, followed by Robert and then Patrick. Finally, after three more boys, his parents had the girl they had longed for, Mary Margaret, and then another girl, Rose Marie, and then of course, Joey. For twelve years there was always someone in diapers.

After Joey had started to school, his mother, Margaret, went back to work for Dr. Bennett, and finally his parents were able to have a few things that they wanted and often needed, like an electric dishwasher. His mother laughed and said, “I really don’t need one; I have seven.” Knowing the oldest children were going to be off in college soon, his father had insisted.

Though these years brought their share of struggles, they had been happy ones for the family with Joseph Sr. always finding time to play ball with the boys. He loved football and even played on the police association team a few years, but when he took his second job, that had to be put aside. His boys loved basketball and excelled at St. Xavier High, so their dad put a goal up in the back driveway where at almost any time after school or when they weren’t at their part-time jobs he could find at least one wanting to play a game of H-O-R-S-E. Together, the family always went to mass regularly.

Wiping a tear, Patrick thought about how happy his parents had been before his mom began to be dizzy, drop objects without a warning and stumble for no apparent reason.

It was 4:30, he needed to get moving. He dialed Carol’s number and she answered sleepily.

“I’m sorry to call so early.”

“Patrick, what’s wrong?”

“My mother is very ill. My dad doesn’t think she’ll make it. I need to leave quickly.”

“I can be ready in less than an hour.”

“No, Carol. That’s not necessary. You haven’t met any of my family. It would be too much.”

“But Patrick, I want to go with you.”

“You’ve been saying you needed to go to the gallery. Why don’t you ride with me to Boston and then take the train into the city. You could stay with Nancy and spend some time doing the things you need to do with your art and photography. Didn’t you say you wanted to shop there for a wedding dress?”

“Yes, but I feel bad not going with you.”

“It’s fine. Really. Can you be ready by six?”

“Sure. It’s too early to call Nance, but if she’s not home, I’m sure Marc and Fredrico will be. I’ll call her from the train station.

“I’ll be there by six o’clock.”

As Carol boarded the train, she waved good-bye to Patrick, knowing he was worried about his mother and feeling badly that he was alone. Secretly she was excited to see Nancy. She liked Nancy’s husband David, too, and was crazy about Hannah, her godchild. Hannah would be three in two weeks and Carol had not seen her in nearly six months. I must get her birthday present while in the city, Carol thought. Maybe she would even give it to her while she was there. Who cares if it was early? The toy selection in New York City would be much better than in Maine.

Carol and Nancy had been best friends since she could remember, all through school and at Columbia University where they were roommates. It would have been difficult if they had not liked each other because their parents were best friends, also. Their fathers had met in Medical School and still shared a medical practice. Nancy’s father was a specialist in obstetrics and gynecology, Carol’s father, a pediatrician. The fathers often laughed and said, “Once Herb caught ‘em, they couldn’t get away. A baby might go straight from his hands into Sam’s.” The girls, who had heard this so often, just rolled their eyes. They knew the next thing would be the slap on the back which one father would give the other. The fathers tried to play golf every Saturday morning unless there was a baby to deliver or another medical emergency. Carol’s father, Dr. Sam, as he was affectionately called by his patients, would have liked to have played on Sunday morning instead, but Dr. Herb was an elder in the Presbyterian Church, one activity they did not share. The topic of religion was rarely discussed out of mutual respect for each other’s beliefs or position. The girls’ mothers visited often too, sometimes over coffee, but always they worked together on charity projects.

Carol always enjoyed riding the train because it gave her time to think and look at the landscape, something important she thought for an artist to do. Although she liked painting landscapes, her preferences were photography and portrait painting and often she used one of her photos as a basis for a portrait.

She was deep in thought when the older gentleman sitting next to her asked where she was going. “I’m staying in the city with friends,” she told him. “I have a little work to do at one of the galleries and would like to shop some,” she said, smiling at him. “You know women!” “What about you?”

“I used to live in the city and my doctors are still there. Lots of good doctors in Boston, but I know these, so I go back. I’ve got the time, got nothing but time,” he said. Because he didn’t offer why he was going to the doctor, Carol didn’t think she should pry.

“I worked a little in the film business when I was younger,” he offered. Before she could say anything, he added smiling, “and I know what you are thinking, but it wasn’t silent films.” His mood had lifted since he began the conversation.

She laughed, “My friends, whom I am going to visit… he and his brother, own a company that produces documentaries. His wife, my oldest friend, met him when she was a journalism intern there. She fell desperately in love with this nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn. That was what she told her parents,” Carol smiled, adding, “Nancy knowingly failed to tell her parents he was fifteen years her senior and divorced. She said she wanted them to meet him first so they’d be charmed.” Carol continued, “They weren’t, but they did come to love and accept David.”

The old man fell silent for a few minutes. Carol really hadn’t planned to talk on the trip, but for some reason she felt sorry for him. He looked lonely, and if not sad, at least worried. She asked him, “So do you have children?”

“One son, about your age, the younger of two boys. My oldest died in Vietnam. Not wanting to become involved in a depressing discussion, she simply said, “I’m sorry.” “I’ll bet you have grandchildren,” she added, trying to lighten the topic. “Not yet,” he said. “My boy lives out in California so I wouldn’t get to see a grandchild much anyway. He’s not married, says he works too much.”

They were about an hour away from the city. “If you’ll forgive me a few minutes, I need to finish up some plans I should discuss with the art gallery director tomorrow.” Taking out her pen and notebook, she began to write.

“You an artist?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“I try, I do some photography and watercolor, a little oil,” she offered. Her attempt at ending the conversation was seemingly foiled.

Silent for a few minutes as she wrote, he then muttered, “My wife was an artist.”

Carol picked up on the “was.” Again not wanting to tread there, she added, “I’ll bet she was good,” and left it.

“She was.”

Before long they were at Union Station. “It was nice talking with you, Mr…” stopping, “I am sorry; I didn’t get your name.”

“James Gentry.”

“I am Carol Neilson. I hope your stay in the city is nice.”

“Yes, thank you and the same to you,” struggling slightly with his small carry-on, arranging his hat and nodding as he departed the train.

When Carol saw Nancy and Hannah waiting in the main terminal, she stepped up her pace. Hannah ran, as Nancy tried to keep up. The two women hugged. “It is so wonderful to see you,” Nancy said excitedly. “I’m sorry about Patrick’s mother, but I will take any excuse to get you to the city.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to be here. How is my little Hannah,” asked Carol as she reached down to take her hand. Squirming to get closer, Hannah looked up and asked “Pwesents Arol?”

Carol laughed, “Not yet, but maybe tomorrow,” feeling badly that she had not brought something for either Nancy or Hannah.

Interrupting her thoughts, Nancy said, “Oh, I have got so much to tell you, but first I must see your ring. Carol it is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Patrick picked it out all by himself.”

“Let’s get a taxi home and put your things away.”

Riding to Nancy and David’s apartment Carol felt truly back home. Having lived in New York City off and on for more than seven years, she had not forgotten how much she loved the excitement, the constant activity.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 39)

Chapter 15 Part IV

Cindy Bradford
The drive home Patrick had planned was to be a slow, leisurely one through the backroads and out of the way places, exploring antique shops and hidden harbors not discovered by tourists. But it quickly became obvious to him that Carol’s heart was no longer into lighthouses, heirlooms or fishing villages. She talked nonstop about the wedding, rarely glancing at the scenery or taking the opportunity to stop at a roadside flea market.

Finally, Patrick laughed and said, “Let’s find a bed and breakfast in Camden tonight and then we’ll head home.

≈≈≈

It would have been an absolutely beautiful and bright summer day had Carol not awakened in a foul mood. Patrick’s enigmatic moods after they made love were driving her crazy. They had fought about it again last night and he had stormed out of the house without saying goodnight.

She didn’t know what she had done wrong. In the height of passion she had called him Paddy and he had stopped their love making and moved away from her, cold and reticent. When she looked in his eyes, she was almost afraid of him until she saw what she thought was a tear. Why was it that she always loved someone who couldn’t give himself completely to her? She had been through this before and she didn’t need to get hurt again.

She was still in bed when Patrick knocked at the back door. She could see him from her room, those damn eyes, she thought. She started not to respond, but he continued to knock.

“Please, Carol, I’m sorry. Just let me in so we can talk.”

Naked, she climbed out of bed, slipped into her robe and slowly walked through the tiny porch to the door.

Contrite, he asked, “Can I come in?”

Without answering, Carol opened the door, shrugging her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Carol. I rarely lose my temper. I was wrong. It won’t happen again. I love you.” His voice sounding as pained as the look in his eyes.

“Do you, Patrick? Sometimes I’m not sure.”

Her robe was slightly askew and Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off her sensuous curves. He pulled her to him, crushing her against him, and lifting her chin, he forced her to look in his eyes.

“Please believe me when I tell you.” Pausing, he asked, “Can we go into the bedroom and talk?”

“Talk, that’s all, Patrick,” moving his hand away from her skin.

Wanting him, she willed herself to pull away and sit on the edge of the bed. For an awkward moment Patrick stood before her and then he did something so out of character that it caught Carol off guard. He stripped off his clothes and stood in front of her. Reaching down, he took her hand and lifted her up to meet his eyes again. In half protest and half acceptance, she let him remove her robe.

“I’ll show you how much I love you,” he said, gently pushing her down on the covers.

Blushing slightly, she said, “It’s not the sex, Patrick,” touching his hair and outlining his face with her fingers. “It’s afterwards. It’s what you become…”

He pulled her closer, savoring her softness…”Just love me, Carol. Teach me how you want me to love.”

“We have to talk.”

“There is nothing to say. I acted badly and I’m sorry.” He buried his head against her breasts and began kissing her skin.

She wanted to turn away until she felt his hard, warm body. The distance between them melted away. She knew she should stop him, but as always she could not resist him.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 38)

Chapter 15 Part III

Cindy Bradford

Patrick loved this time of year in the northeast. It was like the whole world had wakened up from the winter’s blast and was now lazily enjoying the warmer days and cool crisps evenings. Besides in May the humidity was low and the mosquitoes hadn’t yet grown to be the size of moths.

“What do you say about a short trip down the coastline? Drive up to Portland and then work our way through the little fishing villages and maybe see a few lighthouses?”

“I would love that Patrick. It’s been years since I’ve seen most of those places.”

“Good. I’ll be here at seven o’clock in the morning. Is that too early?”

“Not for you and the fishermen,” she laughed. “You’re certainly not gaining any points with Peri, taking me away,” she added.

“Tell him we will bring him a toy rat,” he teased. He knew how much she loved the huge, bundle of fur and whiskers.

When Patrick arrived at her house a few minutes before seven o’clock the next morning, Carol met him in her robe.

“Here’s my bag, Patrick. I just need to dress.”

He put his hands inside her robe, feeling her soft naked skin. “I guess we could just stay here,” he smiled, running his fingers over her body.

“Oh, no you don’t! We’re going on a trip.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” he grinned, while bending over to rub Peri’s neck. “You be a good boy and watch the house.”

As they were driving out of her driveway, Patrick said, “We will probably be in Portland by 10:30 or 11:00 a.m. Have you been to the Windsor Museum of Art?”

“No, I haven’t. I understand it has some nice impressionist and post-impressionist works there. One of Renoir’s portraits is there.”

“I need to run a quick errand when I get to Portland, so could I drop you at the museum? I’ll only be a couple of hours.”

“Certainly, but what kind of errand?”

“Oh, the church has an account at the Portland First Trust Bank and I’ve needed to close it out. This would be a good time,” he said, needing an excuse for his real errand.

“On the way back, can we stop at Damariscotta on the river?” Carol asked.

“Sure, whatever is fine.”

“First let’s stop at some of the antique shops in Wiscasset.”

“That sounds fun,” Patrick said. “Then I’d like to see Pemaquid Light. Maybe we could spend the night at New Harbor. I guess it depends on how much time we spend looking and shopping. Wherever we are when it gets late will be fine with me. Nothing will be really crowded for another three weeks.”

Patrick drove to the square in Portland where the art museum was located. “I’ll be back shortly.  Enjoy!” he told Carol.

When he arrived at the jewelry store, he introduced himself to the man who greeted him at the door.

“Hello, my name is Patrick O’Brien. Are you Mr. Frost?”

“Yes, you called, right?”

“You’re holding some engagement rings for me. I need to select one and have it wrapped.”

“Yes, yes, here they are Mr. O’Brien. I have this one carat marquise, in a cathedral solitaire setting; a very elegant ring. Then, I have this pear shape with a six prong V-tip setting, adding it to the velvet tray.

“I don’t like that one. It’s not feminine enough.”

“Look at this emerald cut. It is near colorless and the clarity is excellent. It is, however, closer to 1.5 carats, but its simplicity is intriguing.”

“Would you show me a wedding band that goes nicely with that?”

“Surely.” He returned with a small band that included ten emerald cut diamonds, channel set.

“I like this set very much.”

“Let me show you one more–an oval shape. This is an outstanding diamond with an elliptically shaped bezel. It is 1.5 carats also.”

“I still like the emerald shape the best.”

After they discussed price, Patrick said, “I’d like to give her the engagement ring tonight as a surprise. If she would rather have another design, can we exchange it in the morning?”

“Certainly. Are you nervous?” the jeweler said, noticing the beads of perspiration on Patrick’s forehead.

“A little,” Patrick replied, smiling. “Should I take the band now or wait?”

“Your choice, but you may exchange either or both or whatever in the morning.”

“Okay. Please wrap the engagement ring and I’ll just take the wedding band with me.”

“Done.”

Handing the small package to Patrick, the jeweler smiled and said, “Good luck and best wishes.”

The purchase had not taken as much time as Patrick thought it might so when he arrived at the museum; Carol was still strolling along, looking at the paintings.

“Hey, are you having fun?”

She turned, “Oh, you scared me. I wasn’t expecting you back so soon, but I’m almost finished.”

“Do you want to have a bowl of clam chowder?”

Carol nodded her head, “That sounds good. I’m hungry.”

“Let’s drive to the waterfront. We could take a boat ride after that,” Patrick said, feeling relieved that the ring purchase was over.

“I made a reservation for 6:30 at Michael’s Dockside Restaurant; I hope that’s okay.”

“Patrick, you are so thoughtful and fun. I’m happy with whatever you choose.”

“You make my life so rich, so much bigger, Carol,” pulling her close to him as they walked by the numerous souvenir shops that lined the street by the waterfront.

“Look Patrick, over there,” pointing to a group of street vendors. “Let’s look at the paintings.”

Carol bent down to better inspect a small canvas lined with tiny seagulls and long stretches of blue sea. “Isn’t that good?”

“Not as good as yours,” he whispered, careful not to let the artist overhear.

“But look at the detail.”

“If you want the painting, let’s get it.”

“We can look around some more. I just thought it was especially eye catching. Maybe because it was small, but effectual.”

He took her hand and they strolled through the maze of vendors, each trying to persuade tourists to stop and take a look.

“Are you ready for dinner?”

“Yes, I’m famished. You wouldn’t let me have anything but chowder.”

His eyes lit up. “I didn’t want you to ruin your dinner.”

Michael’s Dockside featured elegant dining, but it also attracted many of the locals to its friendly bar overlooking the water. The crowd was eclectic with people of all ages, dressed in every manner of clothing.

Patrick chose the formal dining room. The maître d’ checked his notes and seated them in a small, romantic alcove overlooking the water. Patrick had been very insistent when he made the reservation, reiterating that this was a special occasion, requiring a romantic, quiet setting. Patrick discretely handed him a substantial tip.

“This is perfect,” he said, pulling out the chair for Carol.

“What a pretty view. You picked a nice time of the year, before the crowds start growing, Patrick.”

“I’ve only been here a few times, but it’s always nice it seems this time of year. Do you want seafood?”

“Yes. Any seafood.”

“I’m having the lazy man lobster, I think.”

“That sounds good to me. I really like it, but I hate all the messy work when the lobster is in the shell. I like the thought of the work being done for me.”

“Let’s have a drink first.” He signaled for the server.

“Don’t you wonder about all these people, where they go in these boats, what their lives are like?”

“You are a people watcher, aren’t you, Carol?”

“Yes, I suppose I am. I find it all so interesting.” Her look was almost plaintive as her eyes scanned the water.

“I find you, oh so interesting,” he said, unable to wait any longer. “I have a small gift for you,” handing her the wrapped box.

“Why, for me now?”

“You’ll see,” he said, with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Carol opened the wrapping carefully and then lifted the lid.

Taking her hand, he squeezed tightly and said, “Will you spend the rest of your life with me, Carol? Will you marry me?”

“Oh, Patrick, it is so beautiful. Yes, yes, and yes!” she said as tears ran down her cheeks. He felt tears welling up in his eyes as well.

“I never expected this. When did you do this?”

“When I ran my so-called bank errand this morning, I had to tell you something. I had called the jeweler two weeks ago and I’ve been trying to work out all the logistics of this,” as he pulled her closer and kissed her softly.

“I love the design of the ring. I can’t believe you did this by yourself.”

“The jeweler said you could exchange it in the morning if you would like to look at others.”

“I wouldn’t consider that. This is so special. I love you so very much.”

Patrick pulled the matching wedding band from his pocket. “Do you like this for the band?”

“It is beautiful, too. I’m so excited; Patrick, I’m not sure I can eat.”

“You’ll settle down in a few minutes, but I must admit I’m pretty keyed-up, myself.” A shy smile flickered on his face.

“Can we go back in the morning and pick out a band for you?”

“Sure, I’d like that. When would you like the wedding?”

“Soon, as soon as possible, but it will take some planning. Do you think August would be good?”

“You’re the bride, you get to pick. I just have to show up,” he teased.

“I can’t wait to call Nancy. I would like for her to be my matron of honor. Oh, I am so excited.”

“I need to call John, my oldest brother, to be my best man. But first, I must call to talk to your parents. I want to ask for their permission. What do you think they will say?”

“Hallelujah, our old maid daughter is finally getting married,” she said, laughing. “Seriously, they will be happy for us both. I’ve told them quite a bit about you on the phone. My father would like you better if you played golf, though.”

“I’ll learn,” he said, chuckling. In a serious voice he said, “I hope my mother can come to the wedding. Her MS seems to get worse by the day. The trip may be too much for her, but I hope not.”

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 37)

Chapter 15 Part II

Cindy Bradford
The next day after he called and asked if he could see her again, he stopped to buy bread and wine along with a hanging basket of fuchsia. As she met him at the door, he kissed her and followed her in.

“I love the basket of flowers. Let me show you why,” taking his hand and leading him out back to see her lavender, rosemary and other herbs. He had noticed she had some flowers the night before, but as he looked closely again he could not believe how many there were. Her backyard was aglow with flowers, rhododendron shrubs, beach roses, crocus scattered among what seemed like hundreds of ferns and other greenery. Staring at the beauty, he was amazed and convinced that she was obviously an artist in many ways. Already he knew he was falling in love with her and hoped she felt something close to that for him. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her. She looked at him straightforward and smiled, knowing he would not leave her house this night.

Over dinner, they discussed their lives. She told him about her two year affair with a magazine editor who was married and about her work at the art gallery. “I thought he loved me and would leave his wife. I was so stupid.  For two years I dated no one but waited for him to come over when he could, to squeeze me into his life,” she said with a tinge of bitterness still in her voice. “Sometimes he stayed all night. I don’t know what he told her. She must have known. I met her twice and she was friendly enough, but I think she knew.”

Carol paused and then pushed herself to go on. “Anyway, I got tired of waiting and after going on one of my photography trips and being away from him for a couple of months, I knew I could survive without him. When I told him I was tired of having him part time, the left-over part, he simply left. I never saw him again. Shortly after that I left the gallery and came here.” She smiled, seeming to be relieved to have told him.

Patrick told her about his family and how close he and his older brothers were, of his basketball days, and of life in Indiana and then Rome. She knew he had been raised Catholic from previous conversations and asked him what happened. “I became disillusioned,” not quite telling the whole truth. “There were just a lot of things I could no longer accept. The Catholic Church is just not changing with the world. I couldn’t live a life I didn’t believe in anymore,” Patrick offered, but he didn’t elaborate.

Carol pressed, but he sidestepped her direct questions, “I guess I just got older and realized that some things were just not congruent with who I am now; I’m not bitter that I spent all that time believing in some things and some people, but I’m glad I’m where I am now.”

And Carol was glad, too. Carol urged him along, “But why the Congregational Church, why not Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Baptist or some other?”

“Well, growing up in New England, I had heard a lot about the Congregational Church, as I’m sure you had too, especially since you’re from Connecticut. There are quite a few Congregational Churches there. They share many similarities with these other religions, especially Presbyterians in New England. There are many reformed churches that are a result of a series of unions between other groups like the United Church of Christ and the Congregational Christian Churches, but you don’t want to hear a lesson,” he laughed. “Did you know that Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, William Bowdoin and Amherst were all founded by Congregationalists?”

“No, but I hadn’t really thought about it,” she teased Patrick. “But please keep explaining,” Carol replied.

“I guess the thing that appealed to me most is the democracy of the Congregational Church and the independence. The theory of it forbids the minister from ruling by himself or any single body of people being in complete control. Freedoms are guaranteed to every person; every person has a say. There are checks and balances that keep any one group like the lay officers or the minister or one or two members from having special authority.”

“In the Catholic Church, the priest has all the control, and that’s not good. No one person should have that much power, but enough about that.”

“Well, the word in town is that your church is really growing. People are driving some distance to hear you–the red headed Irish Preacher with the deep voice and funny lilt.”

Patrick blushed. “Now, where are you hearing this?”

Smiling, she loved to banter with him and watch his reactions. “Seriously, I heard a woman at the community center saying you really know the Bible well. And then another said she liked the way you used parables and contemporary comparisons and that you weave quite a story. People like that. It makes them feel comfortable in an atmosphere that might otherwise be stuffy and stiff.”

“I’m Irish, don’t forget. We take great pride in our storytelling,” he replied, a twinkle in his eyes, showing great pleasure in what she had just related.

“I tell you that, but I want you for my very own, and those women better not get any other ideas…”

He gazed directly into her eyes to be sure she was not still teasing him.

“What else should I know about you Irishmen?

“Well, we tend to be somewhat unpredictable, practical, independent thinkers. And, of course, we’re romantic poets, lovers of song and dance” he winked.

“And quite humble I can tell”

After helping her with the dishes, he followed her to the couch. Before long they found themselves in her bed. When she awoke at 5:00 a.m., Patrick had been gone at least an hour, at first light, but had left a note on the breakfast table: “I love you. Can I see you tonight?”

Carol picked up her coffee cup and drifting to the window she watched the sun dance on the dew-covered flowers outside the kitchen. Winter had released its grip and spring had finally caught on, though the early morning chill lingered possessively. The warmth of the room and her old gray sweats made her feel snug and tended to. It was quiet, save Peri’s contented purring. She had planned to paint today, go down to the water with her canvas and launch herself into another art project, think about nothing but the reflection of the light on the cobalt sea. But now all she could think about blue were Patrick’s eyes.

She had not expected to feel this way about him. She hadn’t wanted to fall in love again, not with him. Not really with anyone. It hurt too much if it didn’t work. But last night had changed her mind. Patrick had been so gentle, taking her to a place no man had ever taken her before. She stared out at the ocean. Maybe she would tend to her herbs today and take a long bath, use the new salts she had bought at the little boutique that had just opened in town.

Patrick arrived at her doorstep in Levis and a navy blue lightweight sweater at exactly six o’clock, a wine bottle in one hand and bouquet of calla lilies and lavender freesia in the other.

“You’re spoiling me, Patrick.”

“I hope so.” He leaned to kiss her. “You smell good.”

“That’s because I spent most of my afternoon in a perfumed bath with soft music and a trashy novel.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Do I need to,” she smiled wickedly. “But first let me put the flowers in a vase and get the corkscrew for you.”

She went to the kitchen and came back with two wine glasses and a tray of cheeses. While Patrick opened the Bordeaux, she busied herself arranging the flowers in an antique vase. He poured each of them a glass of the rich red wine that immediately emitted the aroma of toasted oak and ripe fruit.

“Mmm. This is excellent. I’m surprised you can find this here.”

Laughing, he said, “I didn’t. I brought several cases with me from Boston. It is good, isn’t it?”

Carol watched Patrick take another sip. She thought it sensuous the way he let the wine linger in his mouth. Curling up beside him, she whispered, “I read your note.”

“And?” he answered nervously touching her arm.

“And I love you.” Her voice was soft, but strong.

He pulled her close in a tight hug, ran his hands through her long hair and touched her face. “This could be the start of something good.”

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 36)

PART FOUR

Finding Himself

Who fails finds later triumph sweet

Who stumbles once walks then with care,

And who knows the place to cry “Beware”

To other unaccustomed feet…

chapter 15

Maine, September, 1977

Patrick’s search for a new beginning took him to the far reaches of Maine. Remote and beautiful, it reminded him in some ways of East Texas, though it was not as hot. The trees were just as predominant and he loved the lush landscape. Throwing himself into his studies, he went to classes, studied and worked in the campus library to help with expenses. Although he made few friends, he impressed his professors. With the credits accepted from Rome, his taking heavy course loads, and writing his thesis in the spring, he was able to graduate in August with his master’s degree. A week before graduation, his favorite professor, an older gentleman who had taught for almost forty years, called him to his office.

“Patrick, I have recommended you for a Congregational Church over at Hidden Harbor. It is very small, but I think you, with your youth and enthusiasm can make it grow. The building is historical; it has been there for years, but in those years, no one has really tried to reach out to the people. These people, as you know by now, are rugged individualists; it is a hard life. The population is made up of fishermen, artists, nature lovers and survivalists, but they need God as much as anyone. The right person can succeed there, and I think you are the right person.”

Patrick was elated. “This was just what I was looking for. The Maine seashore brings me serenity.”

“Good, then I’ll set it up.”

He called Stefano and Carmella to tell them he was being ordained on Sunday and then he called his parents.

Not many people from the outside came to live near Hidden Harbor, although there were plenty of tourists heading up to the Harbor, especially in the summer months when the whale watching boats went out. It was also a departure destination for boats to Nova Scotia, and a stopping off place for those going to Acadia National Park and West Quoddy Headlight at Lubec, at the very edge of the Eastern Time zone. But in the winter months he knew almost everything closed down because of the extreme cold. Most restaurants and hotels closed by the end of October and many didn’t open back until Memorial Day weekend and Patrick wondered how he would adjust. It could be a lonely area, but the locals who stayed told him they found ways of entertaining themselves. He laughed to himself, another foreign land.

≈≈≈

The first person Patrick met at the Seaside Diner, one of the few places that remained open, was Carol. She had summered in Hidden Harbor with her parents when she was growing up and when things turned sour in New York City, it just seemed natural to make her way to Maine to continue her painting and photography. Although she still occasionally went back to the City to show her work at the gallery and to see her parents in Connecticut, she had lived here permanently for three years. A tall brunette with long thin legs but an ample bust, Carol had a fresh look, probably as a result of wearing very little makeup and pulling her long hair back in a simple pony tail. No matter how casual she dressed or how much she tried otherwise, her sophistication was evident. In some circles she had been described as having good bones and carrying herself well. Her eyes were the color of strong coffee, definitely too dark to twinkle or to give the slightest hint of emotion.

Because of her family’s financial circumstances, her father was a physician in Connecticut, she had been able to wear designer clothes, attend the best schools and travel extensively, allowing her opportunities and experiences she easily referenced in conversation. Yet in many ways, she was quite regular, a paradox of sorts.

Patrick found himself intrigued by her, and they talked over coffee for more than an hour. During the next several months they saw each other occasionally in town, generally finding their way to the Seaside for hot cocoa or coffee.

Their conversation always led to questions about her art and his assignment as the new congregational minister. He told her it was more difficult than what he expected because so few people remained in the coldest part of the winter and even fewer braved the weather to hear a sermon.

“I can’t say I blame them.”

“But you will visit sometime, won’t you?”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Sure. I thought you already knew that you were welcome.”

“Around here Patrick, people don’t assume anything. I suggest you get out and go door to door, create some winter activities and before long you might have a full house at that little white church.”

“I’ll do that, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Sorry, but I’ve forgotten the question.”

“Will you visit the church?”

“Certainly Patrick, but it’s been awhile since I’ve been in a church. I hope I remember what I’m supposed to do,” she said, laughing.

Grinning, he teasingly instructed, “Just bow your head when everybody else does. Try to close your eyes and not look around during that time. It’s really easy. What stopped you from going?”

“I never really started. Oh, as a young girl I went some with my mother to the Presbyterian Church. My dad is an agnostic. It’s not that I’m not interested. I am. Traditional religion has not ever been my thing, although I’ve studied Eastern beliefs, different doctrines. As a philosophy minor, I’ve had my share of discussions.”

“I’d like to hear more sometime.”

“Well, I’m usually here about eleven on Tuesday mornings after I give my art lesson at the community center.”

On Tuesday Patrick was at the café long before 11:00, hoping that Carol would really show up. When she did, he immediately felt a little self-conscious. After all, she was from a wealthy family, one that not only admired fine art, but obviously owned a great deal of it, from what Carol had said. Patrick had tried to remember any art in his parents’ house and decided the best he could come up with was the free 8” x 10” calendar of Norman Rockwall pictures his mother brought home from the local pharmacy in December each year and hung on the kitchen wall.

When he finally got the courage to ask her for a real date, she said, “It’s about time, talk about a slow learner.” He laughed his deep laugh and let out a sigh of relief. At almost 28 years old, he knew it was silly to be nervous, but he couldn’t help himself. After all, it had been a long time since he had had a date.

They went to dinner at one of the marina restaurants and then afterwards back to Carol’s small house, a yellow clapboard cottage high on a hill overlooking the water. Colorful buoys hung on one side of the house and lobster boats bobbed in the bay below. The yard was a sea of flowers. They were greeted by the largest Maine Coon cat Patrick had ever seen, and immediately, the cat wrapped himself around Patrick’s leg, as if to check him out and decide on giving his approval.

Carol reached down and picked him up, “Peri, meet Patrick.”

“What’s his name?”

“His real name is Dom Pérignon, but I call him Peri. He was a gift from my friends, Fredrico and Marc, when I left New York.”

Looking around, he was charmed by the entire surroundings. Her art work was fabulous, the detail unbelievable. But it was her photography that really took him in. The faces were alive and told so many stories. He noticed a mystery in some where there seemed to be something purposely missing, not because of a lack of clarity on her part, but rather because of the angle from which they were taken. Many were reflective silhouettes, eerie in their mysticism.

As they shared a bottle of wine and talked until almost three o’clock in the morning, Patrick found himself wanting to hold her and stay the night. When she asked him not to go, he almost stayed but forced himself to return to his small apartment.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 35)

PART THREE

Conquering Fears

And looking back along the past

We know we needed all the strain

Of fear and doubt and strife and pain

To make us value peace, at last…

chapter 14

Boston, December, 1976

Like the title of Eugene O’Neill’s book, Patrick’s flight home was a long day’s journey into night, both literally and figuratively. He didn’t know how he was going to break it to his parents, the quintessential Catholics, the unquestioning, undoubting followers of this doctrine. How could he explain without explaining? He would just have to do his best and leave the rest unanswered.

The week before Christmas, Patrick played the good seminarian, still acting like a student searching for knowledge in the Eternal City, just home on a holiday break.

The day after Christmas he broke the news to his parents and it didn’t go over any better than Patrick had expected. His mother cried and his father shouted. Knowing his parents thought they had failed him somehow, Patrick tried to make them understand that none of this was their fault; it was a decision he made after years of struggle.

“You have disgraced the family. What will Father Michael say?” his dad shouted. His mother wept, walking around the living room, wringing her hands. After three hours, he packed a few items of clothing and headed to his brother John’s apartment.

“Whether you agree or not, I just need a place to stay for the night,” Patrick told him, after riding the “T” to his place.

“You’re welcome here as long as you want to stay, Patrick. You’re the strong one, the knowledgeable one. I’m just a blind Catholic follower. If you tell me you quit, I respect that without question. You have obviously fought the good fight.”

“I couldn’t say it better, big brother. May I sleep on the couch?”

“You can sleep in the bed; this good Catholic boy is spending the night at his girlfriend’s house, the girlfriend who is on the pill,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “So help yourself to the beer in the fridge and watch television or whatever. If you are here tomorrow, I’ll see you about five o’clock.”

“Thanks John.  I’ll not forget your help.”

“Please don’t. I may need a place someday.”

Three days later Patrick went home.

“Mom, Dad, I have to talk, so please try to listen. I’m truly sorry about all of this. I would never hurt you for anything, but I am a grown man and I’ve made a decision I can live with. I only ask you to accept it, not agree with it. I still pray to the same God as you. I would like to stay here until the end of summer when hopefully I can start my life over somewhere else. In the meantime, I need to work enough to help pay the bills.

“Oh Patrick,” his mother said, “I’m so glad you’re home. Your dad and I have talked many hours since you left. You’re right. You’re grown. You have to decide. We can’t do it for you.”

“Patrick, I apologize for the things I said. We were just shocked; your mother is right. You stay here as long as you want. We are who we are and we can’t change that, but neither can you. We will just have to accept each other’s choices.”

Hugging them both, he said, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll go to the marina tomorrow and see if Mac has any work for me. I’ll pay my way, I assure you.”

In January Patrick wrote to the Maine Seminary for Theological Studies asking for admissions information. He had done his research and knew the teachings there were non-denominational, Protestant, with a leaning toward the Presbyterian, Congregational and Methodist churches.

In the introductory letter that he returned with his application and transcripts, he explained his background and waited.

The next two months were especially cold as he helped his old friend Mac, the lobsterman, repair traps and sand and paint the boat he had been using in the waters off Boston Harbor for well over forty years. He had missed Mac, their talks and easy banter.

“How many more years you think this boat can take the waters?” Patrick asked; glad to have on his heaviest coat as the wind whipped against him.

Not looking up, Mac answered slowly, “Eh, we’ll leave together, me and MicMac. I can’t imagine me in any other boat or anybody else with the Mic. We both have a few more good years. I guess one of us will let the other know when it’s time.”

“You think you’ll ever put a GPS in her?”

“I know these waters better than any damned electronic equipment could ever possibly know ‘em! Hell, no! When I can’t find the lobsters, I’ll quit!”

Patrick smiled. He had known Mac since he was a toddler when his dad had brought him to the docks to see the traps. That had been more than twenty years ago when Mac was in his early fifties. The crusty old salt was now even more set in his ways, weather-beaten, impatient, a no nonsense kind of guy.

Patrick was drawn to him immediately and begged his dad to take him to the docks on the weekend where he knew Mac would be. He had fished out of Gloucester for a few months and then Rockport, but he always came back. “This harbor is my home,” he would say. When Patrick was old enough, he pressed his dad to let him work for Mac in the summers and on weekends, rather than at the grocery store where his older brothers had sacked groceries. At first his dad had been unwilling, worried about the dangers, but Mac convinced him that the sea would teach the young boy to appreciate the sunrises and sunsets and the responsibilities in between. His father had liked that.

Mac was right about the sea. Patrick loved the openness and quickly gained an appreciation for it and the hard life that came with it. He couldn’t imagine working it all his life, but knew it was Mac’s whole world. As a nine year old boy Mac had worked in the processing room of the lobster cannery to help out at home. With his mother and a host of other women he picked the meat from the shells, washed it and put it in cans. When he was thirteen he joined his dad and other men in the factories where they boiled the lobsters, but he knew he couldn’t stay inside so he took the first chance he could to work on the docks.

It took him years, but he saved enough to make a down payment on a boat and christened it the MicMac after the Mikmaq Canadian Indians who had been fishing the seas before the Europeans settled in The New World. Of course, when he told the story he added that it went well with his own name. Patrick had heard his stories countless times but he never reminded his old friend of that. Besides, they somehow changed a little each time he told them. Mac wasn’t always keen on the details.

Patrick had stirred him up with his questions and now he was going to have to listen.

“I can’t imagine not going out in this boat,” Mac said with a pained look.

“I don’t see that happening ever.”

“Ayyup, you’re right. I want to be buried at sea, so I might as well make it easy on everybody and just keel over out there someday. Don’t let them look for my body; that would be a waste. I’ll be right where I want to be. Just don’t let anybody else take ole MicMac out, ‘ear?” he added, nostalgically.

“I hear you, Mac, but I figure you have another twenty years or so. Don’t be getting sentimental on me now.”

“Well, hell, I’m seventy-four years old. I can’t live forever, but I have outlived two wives, a daughter and six dogs. Not bad, ‘eh,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. It was becoming increasingly harder to even see the exact eye color.

“You need to have your cataracts operated on if you’re going to keep going out there,” Patrick cautioned.

“Screw the cataracts. No doctor is going to take a knife to my eyeballs!”

Laughing, Patrick said, “I don’t think that’s exactly how they do it.”

By this time, the two friends were inside the shop and Mac had popped the top of a Schlitz beer. “Here, have some of what made Milwaukee famous.”

“Believe I will. Thanks.” Patrick took a gulp, “Not exactly Guinness.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. How’s your old man taking you not going to mass?”

“He doesn’t like it, but we’ve agreed to disagree.”

“Hmm, don’t sound like a comfortable situation. He should just be glad you believe in something. Lotta men don’t. I didn’t used to, but as I get older, I do a lot more thinking. That damn old man sun don’t just come up on its own.”

“You’re right, Mac.”

“What have you heard from that fancy college up in Maine?”

Patrick grinned. “Nothing yet. I don’t think it’s very fancy.”

“Anything past sixth grade sounds fancy to me.”

That very day, his letter of acceptance to begin his master’s degree came in the mail with the extra good news that they were giving him credit for eighteen hours he had taken in Rome.

Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 34)

Chapter 13

Cindy Bradford
In November, Patrick called Stefano and Carmella.

“Oh, Patrico, it is so good to hear your voice,” Carmella said excitedly.

“Carmella, I know it’s the busiest time of the year for Stefano, but I was wondering if I could come up tomorrow and talk with you for a short while.”

“Patrico, is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to talk. Will you please ask Stefano just to be sure it’s all right before I come?”

“You know it is. We are never too busy for you, but I will ask just the same and call you if there is a problem. If you do not hear from me tonight, what time can we expect you?”

“I’ll take the afternoon train. I believe it arrives there at 4:58 p.m.”

“Good, in time for cocktails. I am looking forward to seeing you, Patrico. Are you absolutely sure you are okay?”

Patrick mustered a light laugh to convince Carmella he was all right. “I’m really fine. I’m anxious to see you both.”

Carmella was waiting when his train arrived. She thought he appeared nervous and worried.

“Stefano was in the shower so I told him I would come on. He said he would be on the terrace waiting.”

Knowing he must be tense, Patrick was struggling to cover his apprehension.

Stefano was on the terrace, as promised, when they drove up.

“Patrico, it is so good to see you, but what brings you up here in the middle of the week?” he asked, handing a drink to Carmella and then one to Patrick.

They all sat down, but Patrick suddenly stood, rushing into his sentence, said, “I am going to Boston for Christmas, and I am not coming back to Rome. I am leaving the Church.”

“Leaving, what do you mean?” Stefano said, looking stunned.

“I’m giving up my training for the priesthood. I’m no longer going to be a Catholic.”

“But Patrico, you will always be a Catholic!” Stefano countered.

“Maybe on a sheet of paper somewhere or maybe in some peoples’ minds, but not in my heart,” Patrick countered.

“Why? Why this change of heart,” Carmella asked, tears running down her cheeks.

Patrick paused, he wanted to tell them the truth, everything, but he cut himself off.

“I have studied and I have prayed, both more than you will ever know, but there are just some parts of the Church that I can no longer accept. I thought being a priest would bring me happiness; that I could be a champion for the people who no one else would listen to, but I cannot. The church is too big, too powerful, too singular and so is the priest–he is the Church; he is the power. It is not power I want, it is peace.”

“Patrico, I am a Catholic; I was born a Catholic and I will die as one; it is all I know, but I am not a scholar. I will support whatever you decide. Nothing changes.”

Carmella was weeping now. She stood and walked over to Patrick and put her arms around him.

“Patrico, we love you, and we know you did not make this decision without a struggle. I am selfish. I do not want you to leave Italy.”

“I’ll return here someday to visit, and you must come to the States to see me. Thank you for listening. I know it’s difficult for you to understand and I honor that. Please know that I am not walking away from God. My quarrel is not with him and my faith is strong. I will serve in some capacity, but not as a Catholic.”

“What will you do, Patrico?”

“I’m not sure. In the last year I’ve read many books about other doctrines. I will continue doing that. I have found that my basic tenets are no different from many of those beliefs. In most, the governance of the Church is not in one man. In some churches it is shared by all the faithful. There’s a very small seminary in eastern Maine that I may explore. I hear it’s remote and beautiful there.

“I’ll miss this part of the world, here where you are, and I’ll desperately miss you,” he said with tears welling up in his eyes. “You have been so good to me. I love you both.” Standing, he continued, “It’s late, and I know what a busy time this is for you, Stefano. I’ll take the night train back.”

“You will not, young man,” Carmella said sternly. “We are going to have some dinner and wine, and you will stay in your bungalow as always.”

“I didn’t bring clothes,” Patrick said.

“I will find some clothes around here. I’m sure Enrico has some that will fit you. Tomorrow you can help us pick olives. You cannot leave Italy without that experience,” Stefano said softly, still obviously shaken by the news.

Patrick smiled; he wanted to stay, needed to stay. This place was like a cocoon for him. He wished his parents would be as understanding, but he knew that would not be the case.

“About the scooter, what should I do with it?”

“Patrick, we have three here. Sell it or give it away. It is nothing,” Stefano urged.

“Then if it’s all right with you, I think it would mean a great deal to Ricardo, the old, Italian gentleman who works at the apartment building.”

“Do what you wish; it is yours.”

“I think I’ll offer it to him; maybe I can leave Italy feeling good about something,” his voice tight with emotion.

“Then you two find him some clothes so he can freshen up and get back here to help me with dinner. This is a working trip,” Carmella teased, but Patrick could tell, her heart was heavy.

“Just do me one favor, will you Patrico?”

“Certainly; what is that?”

“Throw a coin over your shoulder into the Trevi Fountain.”

Patrick looked at her with a confused expression.

“Then you will come back to Rome and to us some day,” she smiled warmly.