Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

“I didn’t know. But it’s okay. Was he good to you?”

“Giovanni. Yes. He is temperamental, I think you’d say. But a good man. He’s a tailor. He made my coat,” she said, smiling.

“Giovanni. That’s Joe,” he said.

She nodded.

He said, “I want you to know that I missed you like crazy. I thought about you every single day. I asked myself a million times what I had done to you by giving in to your mother. Wondering if I’d done the right thing. Your mother was…I don’t know the word.”

He knew lots of words for her— spoiled, selfish, uncompromising, willful —but none of them were appropriate at the moment.

The waiter brought their salads, unfurled their napkins, and placed them on their laps. He asked if they wanted anything else. They said, in unison, “No, thanks.”

Franny said, “She told me everything. That she’d left you a note, taken me away, and made sure you couldn’t find us.”

“I was with the CIA. Of course I found you.”

Franny laughed. “Well, there’s that.”

Joe said, “I wrote. I called. I couldn’t even get her to talk to me. In the end, all I could do was trust her. I couldn’t offer you much without Isabel.”

Franny poked at her salad.

“Since you’re an intelligence man, I think I’d better tell you the truth, Papa.”

“Yes, you should. We intelligence men have our methods of extracting it.”

She laughed. And then she said, “Here’s what was in the safe-deposit box.”

She reached into her purse, pulled out a little black satin bag, and removed two items from it. One of them was a small velvet box. Franny opened the box, and Joe recognized the small but good diamond engagement ring he’d given to Isabel.

Franny showed Joe the other item, a leather-bound book with a lock and key. She said, “This is her diary.

“She tells her diary all about falling in love with you.”

“I’m…I’m glad you showed me. I don’t know what to say, except that I’m proud of you.”

“She said it. She loved you.”

Joe felt his throat closing. He nodded. “I loved her, too. Love isn’t always enough.”

Franny’s face was flushed.

“Thank you for showing me your mother’s things,” Joe said.

“I had an ulterior motive, Papa, for my spur-of-the-moment decision to show up unannounced.”

“You have my full attention.”

“I grew up as an only child. I was afraid to ask you this in case you said no.”

Joe put down his fork.

“I want to meet my sister,” Franny said. “I want to meet Julie.”

Chapter 97

Joe called me from the car.

He told me that he was taking Francesca for a ride around San Francisco, showing her the landmarks—the Golden Gate Bridge, Union Square.

My husband sounded elated. I could hardly hear him. Not because of the traffic sounds, although there was a lot of that, but because I was trying to take in this earthquake that had come without warning.

Joe asked me questions. When would I be home from work? Would it be okay to bring Franny home for dinner? What would be the easiest for me? We could go out, but he thought it would be best to have a home visit. Because Franny wanted to meet her sister.

I thought about Julie getting this sudden news. She was a well-balanced and secure little girl, but still, she was three and a half. And very attached to her dad. Daddy’s baby girl.

I could see her stamping her foot and saying ,“No, no, no.”

I said, “Can you do the cooking, Joe? Stuff always happens just when I’m leaving work. You know.”

“Can I do the cooking? You couldn’t stop me. I have a few authentic Italian recipes I’d like to try out.”

“I’ll pick up dessert.”

“Great,” he said. “Love you, Linds.”

“Okay. Me love you too. Wait, Joe—what is she like? Do you like her?”

“She’s great.”

“Good. Good. What kind of work does she do?”

He laughed.

“What, Joe? Doctor? Lawyer? Schoolteacher? Nun?”

“Believe it or not, Blondie, Francesca is a cop.”

I tried to leave work early, but Brady called an impromptu squad meeting to start off the New Year. Naturally enough, I was required to attend. And make a report on staffing.

“Homicide is bracing for a busy year ahead,” I said, and I left it at that.

As soon as escape was possible, I bolted from the Hall and drove to our neighborhood pastry shop, where I picked up a box of cannoli and an assortment of cookies. Then, at just under the speed limit, I drove home.

Joe’s car was parked in front of our apartment building. The engine was cold. I checked.

I took the elevator, opened our front door, and called out, “Helloooo. I’m home.”

But no one answered. No one was there, not even Martha. I looked around for any kind of clue—Joe’s shoes under the coatrack, a woman’s jacket on the hook—but there was nothing.

I took the white string-tied boxes to the kitchen counter and smelled marinara sauce, saw covered pots on the stove. Then I saw a folded sheet of notepaper addressed to me.

What now?

I read, Linds, we’ve gone for a walk. Be back in a few.

Joe had noted the time. I checked. It was ten minutes ago.

I took the opportunity to jump into the shower, rinse off, and cool down. Then I thought about what to wear to meet my husband’s daughter. I was under the spray, reviewing my scant clothing options, when I heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood and voices in the living room.

I turned off the water and heard Joe and a woman talking, and Julie was piping up, too. I wrapped myself in a towel and was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened. I hadn’t locked it. I suppose I gasped.

“Mommy.”

Julie was there on the threshold, looking up at me. Still hearing people talking, I looked over her head, but only Julie could see into the bathroom. I stooped down and said, “Honey, I’ll be out in a minute—”

“Mommy, guess what?”

“Let me get dressed before I guess, okay?”

I shooed Julie out of the bathroom doorway and darted into the bedroom with my little sweetie calling behind me, “Hurry up.”

I reached into the closet for pants, a top, flat shoes. My hair was damp, but I finger-combed it and put it up in a ponytail, and then, ready or not, I joined the party in the living room.

Joe stood up from his chair and so did the lithe young woman who’d been sitting on the sofa. Martha, wagging her tail, ran to me and pushed at my hand.

My husband said, “Lindsay, this is Franny.”

“Hi, Franny,” I said, walking toward her. She said, “So good to meet you,” but my arms were already outstretched as if they had a mind of their own.

I wrapped her in a hug.

Julie ran over and hugged my legs and Joe stood behind Franny, where I could see him beaming.

My little girl tugged at my shirttails and I looked down at Julie-Bug’s precious face. She was grinning.

“Guess what?” she said.

“What?” I said, releasing my stepdaughter.

“Mom. Mom. This is Franny.”

“Yes, darling, I know.”

“Franny is my sister, Mom. I have a sister .”

There were smiles all around, and then Joe said, “Who’s hungry?”

“I’m starved,” said my stepdaughter.

“Me, too,” said Julie.

“I can always eat,” I said.

Franny helped in the kitchen as Joe set the table and then lifted the pan of his amazing lasagna from the oven. I tossed the salad, and very soon, we were all gathered around the dining table. I sat across from Joe; Julie sat between Franny and me.

The awkwardness, the tension, the fear of God only knew what—that was gone.

All of the Molinaris were home, together.