F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (25 page)

COLUMBUS
DAY

           
GERRY AND MARTHA WERE WARMLY
RECEIVED INTO THE folds of the Panzella clan's Columbus Day celebration. Gin
knew the welcome might have been a bit more guarded had her folks realized that
Gerry was more than just an old high school friend she'd run into again.

 
          
Gin
had already explained to her folks about Gerry's being a widower.

 
          
It
probably wasn't necessary, but you never knew. Papa had a tendency to verbalize
whatever was on his mind, especially after he'd been celebrating for a while.
She could just hear him asking Gerry where Martha's mother was. Papa was
looking forward to meeting him. He vaguely remembered his name from the
Washington-Lee football team, and was intrigued by the fact that he was an FBI
agent. Mama wanted to know all the details of his widowerhood, ducking and
tsking and Madroneing as Gina told her.

 
          
What
she hadn't explained was how she felt about him, the growing need, the building
heat between them.

 
          
It
went swimmingly. Papa and Gerry hit it off immediately, and Uncle Fiore used to
be a cop so he wanted to talk shop with the Fibby. And Martha . . . well,
Martha charmed the women immediately and before Gin knew it, the little
five-year-old was in the kitchen, draped in an apron almost as big as she was,
standing on a chair at the counter helping Mama and Aunt Maria roll meatballs
and stuff shells.

 
          
Gin
passed her Aunt Terry and her Aunt Anna in whispered conversation.

 
          
".
. . killed in a car accident. A terrible tragedy."

 
          
"And
I understand he's raising that little girl all by himself."

           
"And doing a good job, I'd
say. Isn't she darling?" Gin moved on, smiling.

 
          
She
had hoped that as the evening wore on it would become apparent to anyone who
saw them together that she and Gerry were more than just friends. She knew she
had succeeded when she overheard Mama in serious conversation with Gerry.

 
          
"And
now your name. I'm not sure how you spell it. Is that with an i' at the
end?"

           
"No. With an e-y. C-a-n-n-e-y.
It's Irish."

 
          
"Is
it now? At's a-nice." Gin almost laughed aloud at Mama's sudden reversion
to an Italian accent. She was born in
Baltimore
.

 
          
But
Gerry earned a place in Mama's heart by eating everything she put in front of
him, from stuffed calamari to stuffed shells, and coming back for more. How
could she stay cool toward anyone with a big appetite who loved her cooking?
And Martha . . . Martha actually ate a meatball, a little one she'd made
herself.

 
          
Gin
was careful what she ate. Pasta had awakened inside her and was urging her to
fill her plate, but Gin turned a deaf ear. She stayed on the move, sampling and
nibbling, and made sure to leave something on each plate she used.

 
          
After
dessert Gin spotted Gerry in a corner doing shots with Papa, Uncle Fiore, and
Uncle dorn. Gerry caught her eye, lifted his glass of pale liquid, and winked
at her. God, he looked great. And she loved the way he seemed to fit right in,
going with the flow of the party, not standing on the side watching, but
jumping right into the heart of the festivities. She realized right then how
much she wanted him.

 
          
She
wondered if she should warn him about what he was drinking. If that was what
she thought it was, he was going to be sorry. But why be a wet blanket? Let him
have his fun.

 
          
The
dishes were washed and racked and the festivities were waning when Gin, Gerry,
and Martha made their way toward his car. Mama, Papa, and a couple of the aunts
and uncles were standing on the front stoop waving goodbye.

 
          
"I
think you two were a hit," Gin said. "Did you have fun?"

           
"I think I had too much fun,"
Gerry said. He held out the keys. "Do you mind?" He seemed fine,
steady on his feet, his voice clear, but Gin took them, glad he could admit
when he'd had too much.

 
          
"Not
at all."

           
"Mama said I could come back
and help her cook anytime, " Martha said.

 
          
Gin
had to smile. Her mother must have really taken to Martha if she told her to
call her Mama.

 
          
"And
I know she meant it," Gin told her. "It's been a long time since she
had a little girl around to help her cook." She remembered with a pang all
the holidays she'd stood on a chair at the very same counter and helped her
mother prepare the feasts. She wondered if Mama felt abandoned by the daughter
who went off to become a doctor.

 
          
Without
sons there'd be no daughter-in-law to take under her wing.

 
          
I
wonder if she knows how much I love her? Gin thought. But when was the last
time I told her?

 
          
She
couldn't remember. That shook her. She took it for granted Mama knew, but
everyone needed to hear it once in a while. Gin vowed to start doing just that
on a regular basis.

 
          
Why
not start now?

 
          
She
ran back to the front steps and threw her arms around her mother. "I love
you, Mama. You're the best." She kissed the stunned woman and then hurried
to the car. A glance over her shoulder showed Papa beaming and Mama smiling and
wiping her eyes.

 
          
After
strapping Martha into the backseat, Gerry slumped into the passenger seat.

 
          
'"What
was that your father was pouring at the end?"

           
"Grappa, " Gin said.

 
          
"I
was fine up till then. I mean, I'm Irish. We can drink just about anything that
won't kill us. But that stuff. . . "

           
"Grappa won't kill you, "
Gin said with a smile. "But if you're not used to it, it can make you wish
it had."

           
Martha's bedtime was long past but
she was wired, talking at light speed about filling cannolis and grating cheese
and how ugly the calamari were before Mama cleaned them. Gin was glad it hadn't
been Easter. How would Martha have reacted to napozella? If she and Gerry were
still seeing each other next spring, and she hoped they would be, Gina would
have to prepare Martha for the sight of a sheep's head in the kitchen.

 
          
Martha
talked nonstop right into the parking lot by their apartment, but was sound
asleep in her father's arms by the time they reached the front door. Gin went
upstairs and helped put her to bed, Downstairs, Gerry put his arms around her.
She snuggled against him.

 
          
"Thanks,
Gin," he whispered. "This has to be the best Columbus Day of my
life."

           
"It's not over yet, " she
said, and kissed him.

 
          
He
leaned back and looked at her for a second, then they kissed again, long and
passionately. Gin didn't want this night to end yet.

 
          
They
tumbled to the couch and before long were fumbling with each other's buttons,
shucking off their clothes like old skins until there was nothing between the
new skins. And they didn't need much foreplay because he was ready and God knew
she'd been ready all night.

 
          
She
didn't want to ask, but she forced herself to say it. "I don't have to
worry about you, do I?"

           
"What? Oh, you mean . . . no.
Well, two women, both very straight. We thought something might be there but
nothing came of either. How, how about you?"

           
"One guy for most of my
residency."

           
"What happened?"

           
"I came here, he stayed there.
It's over."

           
And then he was above her and in her
and he rode her furiously, bringing her to the peak . . . and then leaving her
there.

 
          
'"I'm
sorry," he said when he'd caught his breath a moment later.

 
          
"It's
been so long, and I've wanted you so bad. I just . . . "

           
She put her arms around his neck
and held him close. "It's all right," she said. "I understand.
There'll be other times." Physically, she was frustrated, here she was
with Gerry Canney, her high school dream man, her very much now man, and her
pelvis felt as if it were ready to explode. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to be the perfect lover and she should have been drifting on
ecstatic clouds of delight. But another part of her was charmed. She'd sensed
he was a straight arrow, and this confirmed it in a way. If he'd performed like
a stud tonight she might have wondered about him. She did wonder about herself.
Did she really feel this deeply about Gerry, or was it a rebound thing, someone
to fill the void left by Peter?

 
          
No,
she decided. This is real. This has been a long time coming.

 
          
As
they cuddled, he ran a hand over her abdomen and traced the long, puckered scar
that ran from the lower tip of her sternum straight to the left of her navel.

 
          
"What's
this?"

           
"The reason you'll never see
me in a bikini."

           
"No, really."

           
She told him about being hit by the
truck, her torn-up insides, and how
Duncan
had put her back together.

 
          
"Ah.
Now I see why you're so devoted to him. I guess I owe him."

           
"What for?"

           
"For saving you for me. Let me
show you a couple of my scars. Here's my appendectomy . . . "

           
"Mine is bigger than you-ors,
" Gin singsonged.

 
          
And
somewhere along the way as they compared scars, she noticed that he was ready
again.

 
          
"It
really has been a long time, hasn't it?" she said.

 
          
"Forever."
But this time she took charge, straddling him, riding him, controlling the
tempo, and when she climaxed it was as if the almost-orgasm of before had been
waiting in the wings and had jumped in at the last minute to explode with the
new one. She moaned and he reached up to cover her mouth and she bit down on
his hand and thought she was going to pass out.

 
          
Later,
as they sprawled exhausted on the couch, she saw that his hand was bleeding.

 
          
"Oh
God, I'm sorry. Look what I did. I didn't mean to."

           
"I know. I just didn't want
anything to wake Martha." God, she'd forgotten all about Martha.

 
          
"But
you said she's a sound sleeper."

   
        
"She is. And she's probably
sleeping like the dead after that party tonight, but still .. . "

           
"Even in the throes of
passion, you don't stop being the protective father."

 
          
"It's
not a hat I can just take off when I want to. I hope that doesn't offend
you."

           
"Not in the least," she
said and kissed him to make sure he understood. "It tells me something
about you, something good." She loved this man. She felt so at home with
him. They shared a past, and she sensed they shared a set of values. Here was
something that could really last.