Aqua - Christmas in New York City (Aqua Romance Travel Series) (4 page)

“After she lost her apartment.”

“It gave her character.”

“If moving in with a friend like a beggar is what you see as character-building.”

“She passed the year.”

“Despite living in an old rooming house with four other students that were loud and partied a lot.”

“That’s University.”

“Spending nights at the library doing work after a shift at the grocery store? That’s not how a student should live.”

“What do you know? A starving artist making his in-roads with a prof.”

“Dad! Enough.” It was the first time Casey said anything during the exchange and her voice was strained.

Foster didn’t even look in her direction and simply raised a hand toward her in a dismissive gesture and kept talking at Harry. “What do you know about real life?”

“I know it should be filled with love, not a child eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and supper so she doesn’t have to crawl back to her father for anything.” The chair screeched as Harry stood up. “One thing I know for certain. No one dismisses Cassandra this way in my presence.”

“Well I’m not apologizing, if that’s what you want.”

“We want you to have a presence in our life, but not when you treat Cassandra like this.”

Foster leaned in with a fake smile and sneered. “So this is how you work. Set limits on my daughter’s life.”

“I’m trying to preserve what’s left of your relationship.”

“It was fine until you came into my daughter’s life by storm. Now you’re trying to sever her family ties.”

“From what I understand, they were severed long ago.”

Foster turned a brooding lower lip toward Casey. “You think this is what your mother would have wanted?”

It always ended up at this point.
Her mother
. He still blamed Casey for her death, because she was the only one he could blame rather than accepting the fact that she had simply died of cancer.

“You’re not welcome here.” It happened so fast, that Casey couldn’t even stop her words.
 

Foster ignored the comment and changed the subject. “Casey often talked about her bowel movements when we were potty training her. Your mother always said we should keep table talk pleasant.” He had tried for a twinge of nostalgia but it was met with silence. He looked to both sides of the table for someone to agree with him but Harry’s mouth had fallen wide open and Casey was turned away, her fists bunched around her utensils.

Foster got up slowly and left the table. Harry and Casey just stared at each other, and only moved from the table once they heard the front door close.

Casey snatched the gravy and poured it liberally over the mashed potatoes. “That was a memorable meal.”

Harry still wasn’t sure what to say but the last thing he thought of was eating. “Well, it’s your father.”

Casey built a wall with her potatoes to contain the gravy. Then she lifted one forkful into the sauce, and placed it in her mouth. “You could have made it easier with my dad tonight.”

“He was very disrespectful to you.”

“Huh! He always is.”

“I won’t let anyone treat you that way.”

She waved her fork around. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know, but Cassandra, now you have someone looking out for you.”

“You made the evening very awkward.”

“So you’d rather spend the time in a charade?”
 

“No, just have a nice Christmas.”

“Cassandra, did you ever think that I was uncomfortable?”

She had never thought of that and was quiet for a moment. “Sorry.”

“I was uncomfortable because of how he treated you, not me. I’ve dealt with my share of jerks in business.”

“I put up with your father. All his condescending remarks about English not being real work. That economics is important, not the arts and writing.”

“He’s just angry because I’m studying.”

“But you just took it from him! He was outright criticizing your mom. Even your studies and you let him just walk all over you.”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene and make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Unlike what I did.”

Harry just shrugged.

“You had no right to tell him my private story.”

“He didn’t know how you survived in university?”

“No!”

“He should. He was a jerk.”

“It’s up to me to tell, not you.” Casey felt a raw disgrace rising up in her and she got up and looked out the window. Her father’s car was still parked on the road and she thought she could see him sitting in the seat. She was filled with regret and walked toward the door.

“Don’t go, Cassandra.”

“Now you’re telling me what to do?”

“I’m asking.”

“You’re no different than my father. Than all men.” Her fingers shook as she yanked her coat from the closet. “You all just want what you want.”

She stepped into the front vestibule. It was cold and she wiped the window to get a better view of her father but the windows were steamed up in his car.

“Cassandra, you can’t always fix everything.”

She sighed.

“He’ll change when we have children. It always happens with grandparents.”

“I don’t want children, Harry. We won’t be better parents than ours were.”

“Our mothers were great.”

“It doesn’t mean we should be parents.”

“I want a child with you.”

“I don’t want a child with you.”

He was shocked.
 

“Is that a problem, Harry?”

“Stay and let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. If you want children, you should find someone else.”

“Just like that?”
 

In that moment, she felt all the loose ends of her life drift together in one big knot. Her mother’s death. The cancer gene that ran through her family. She knew then that seeking her father’s approval was a desperate need for the girl in her to have her mother back. She wanted to tell Harry at that moment, but as much as she tried to untangle her thoughts, the knot tightened around her. She felt a pressure in her chest and instead she grew distant and simply nodded.

“And what did you just say this afternoon when we were making the salad?”

Casey shot him a look.

“You talked about how wonderful your life has become now that I’m in it. That it was like a dream. And now you want to toss it all away?”

Casey looked down toward her feet.

“Cassandra, remember when I first found out about your gene mutation and you wanted to end it then? I couldn’t risk losing you. Not for anything.” He held both of her hands between his and kissed them. “I love you too much.”

Casey pulled her hands away, as if she hadn’t heard the last five words. “You couldn’t risk it. It’s always about you. Tonight
you
couldn’t take the high road with my father. It was about
you.
You’re just like Roger!”

The both looked at each other, surprised, then turned toward the window in embarrassment. Harry was the first to speak. “We’re better than this, Cassandra.”

“Maybe we’re no different than any other couple. It always comes down to this. Some petty issue that no one can see past, then all the ugly issues come out. You blame me, I blame you.”

“Having a child isn’t a petty issue.”

“We’re making it that way.” She pulled out her gloves.

“So this is how we end our twelfth day of Christmas?”

“Don’t be melodramatic now.”

“Don’t go, Cassandra. We have to make our own life.”

“And forget about everyone else?”

“No, just focus on us first.”

She was in a frenzy. “Our life involves my family, right or wrong. You can dismiss your parents, but I won’t.”

It was a sharp blow and he spun away from her and into the hallway. Rather than follow him, Casey buttoned up her coat to guard against the falling snow and opened the door. “Then leave, Harry.” She slammed the door shut, muttering, ‘Everyone always does’.

CASEY DREW up her collar against the biting wind. Her father hadn’t been in the car and she walked a few blocks looking for him. When she finally decided to return to the brownstone, the bobble hat was draped over the door handle. She looked around without a sign of her father.

When she entered the vestibule, Harry’s boots were gone. She walked to the door and called out his name but there was no answer. Inside, the dining table had been cleared and the kitchen was clean. She saw a note on the counter and crossed the floor slowly to pick it up.
 

Cassandra,
 

I went home to give you a chance to spend time with your father as you wish. We need to talk.

Love,

Harry

She walked toward the phone and then stopped. She held the notepaper in her hand and felt something settling over her. There was a strange sense of peace as a gloomy notion nudged her away from the receiver and toward the living room.
 

Tears filled the back of her throat as she looked out the front window; snowflakes tumbling into the streetlight. She stared for a long time, while the street was swallowed up in snow. Casey had arrived at a clear vision in her mind - something that had been waiting for her ever since they first talked about having children - she would be better off alone. Without a child. Without a husband.

PART TWO

The 12 days of Christmas

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

Charles Dickens

HARRY RAN his finger along the eleven gifts still waiting for him to open. He could feel Cassandra’s touch in each of them, her fingers pressing the silver paper into a fold, her teeth clamping on her upper lip whenever she concentrated. Each bow and gift tag were a different color or pattern to signify the day it was to be opened.

Cassandra had arranged the gifts on the top shelf of the wooden pyramid-shaped ceppo and along the manger scene on the bottom. On the middle tier, she had placed fruit and candy, in keeping with Italian tradition. The ceppo was several feet high, decorated with colored paper, gilt pinecones, and a star hanging from the top. Although many Italians now simply had a Christmas tree, the ceppo was a gift from his mother and he treasured it. Cassandra called it the ‘Tree of Light’ as his mother did, and every evening they lit the candles along the tapering sides of the wooden frame together.

Being an art curator, his mother had collected a number of nativity scenes - the presepi - from some of the finest sculptors and Harry had spread them throughout his condo. Cassandra had put one up in her home, as a gesture to blend their two worlds, and Harry had given her his mother’s favorite; a Venetian theme with the Doge as one of the wise men and a mask shop and pigeons in the background. As they assembled the figures in her library, Harry couldn’t help but picture a child by their side, where he would repeat the history his mother always told him, how the first nativity scene was created in 1223 by Saint Francis in a small town south of Assisi. Theirs would be a vibrant household at Christmastime, with their children running from stockings at the fireplace mantle, to gifts under the Christmas tree and on top of the ceppo.
 

Harry sighed. Where did this vision now stand. He’d spent the evening alone for the first time since he’d returned from Europe with Cassandra. They’d had months of building their life together and now this.
 

He had called Cassandra first thing that morning but she didn’t answer the phone. He emailed her. He texted. He waited for an answer.
 

In the meantime, he took a gift with a turquoise-colored bow and ribbon from the ceppo. He opened the flap and read Cassandra’s few words over and over again. ‘For our thirteenth day of Christmas.’
Our.

Were children worth fighting over? Did he care whether he had them in his life or not, if it meant Cassandra wasn’t in it?
 

He slipped his finger under the tape and unwrapped a leather-bound book with a handwritten title:
Volume I: Our first week together
. He turned to the first page and started to read:

A warm breeze blew into St. Mark's Square from the lagoon and I pushed bangs off of my face repeatedly. I had been reading a book but closed it. Venice was serene at night, the tourists had returned to the mainland and the moon was casting a warm glow on the floating city. In the lantern light, a couple framed against the row of marble arches were embraced in a long kiss and I wondered how many times this scene had repeated itself, night after night, over hundreds of years. From my outdoor table at Caffè Florian, I watched couples dancing in the square, a young woman twirling for a photo, and a group of single women swaying as they sang a song.
 

“Madame,” a white-gloved waiter pulled a cappuccino from the tray, and then a dessert platter.
 

“I didn’t order this,” I said.

“They are with the compliments of the gentleman over there,” he pointed in the direction of a dark-haired man who tipped his glass toward me as his lips parted in a slow-forming smile.

A second waiter brought a platter of prosciutto, melons, fresh figs and other antipasti.

“I didn’t think you had dishes like this on the menu.”

“We don’t, madame. These were a special request.”

“Grazie,” I said.

When the waiters left, I took another look at the man and mouthed, ‘Grazie’. He smiled and raised his glass toward me. The lantern light cast a soft shadow on his face where his sideburns led to a strong jawline and a dimpled chin.

Strange, I thought, that I would run into someone at the end of my day. I had wandered around the cafe, admiring the antique mirrors and chandeliers, the rooms painted with original frescos. I had run my fingers along one of the mirrors, pondering how many women such as me had looked at themselves, questioning what their future held. How many faces could be staring back at me, and what stories would they tell, what secrets would they hold. Centuries ago, women didn’t grapple with the thoughts of double mastectomies or genetic markers. They lived their lives unaware of a disease until it riddled their bodies. It was a blessing, I thought, not to know the future. Since finding out about the future health risks of my BRCA 1 and 2 gene mutations, I grappled with my options daily.