Home Again

That was the question she’d brought for her long-dead mother. How did two people who were supposed to love each other find their way back? How were wrong paths made miraculously right?

Help me find my way, Mama.

She lifted her head, stared out at the sparkling water. As usual, no answer came to her, nothing but the ceaseless rhythm of the waves slapping against the dock. The wind picked up, pushing the waves harder and harder against the pilings. Overhead, a gull wheeled and cawed and dove into the sea.

&nbs

p; “I thought I’d find you here.”

Francis DeMarco’s voice was a warm, welcome balm. She should have known that he would show up. Smiling, she twisted around to see him.

He stood a few feet behind her, tall and straight, his long arms dangling at his sides. He looked, as always, slightly awkward and unsure of himself in his severe priest’s clothes, the jet-black cloth a stark contrast to his pale, clear skin. A lock of tangled, wheat-colored hair lay flopped across one eye. Impatiently he shoved it aside, and it fell right back.

Madeline’s heart swelled almost painfully at the sight of him. He stared at her as he always did, his eyes shining and intense, his mouth poised on the brink of a smile.

“Hey, Francis,” she said.

He smiled in that boyish way of his, his whole face crinkling with the motion. He looked heartbreakingly naive for a man full grown. “I missed you in church this morning.”

She grinned at the old joke. “I prayed in the OR. And at the cosmetics counter at Nordstrom’s.”

He moved toward her, his heels clicking on the tired old wood. His knees creaked as he sat beside her. His gaze cut to the sea. “She answer this time?”

From anyone else, the question would have stung, but not from Francis, her Francis, who knew her better than anyone else in the world. Sighing, she leaned against him and slipped her hand in his.

He’d been her anchor for so many years. Her best friend. The strength she’d never found in her own soul, she’d always found in his.

“No, no answer.”

“You ready for the party tomorrow? I see you’ve cleaned out Nordy’s and Tower Records.”

She laughed, and it felt good. She didn’t laugh nearly enough. “Classic single-parent-with-a-troubled-teen syndrome. Buy, buy, buy.”

A companionable silence slipped between them. Madelaine stared out at the sea, listening to its rhythmic breathing, feeling its movement in the wood beneath her.

When Francis started to speak, his voice was so quiet that for a second, Madelaine didn’t even notice.

“… Old Mrs. Fiorelli. She’s not doing well.”

Madelaine squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry to hear that, Francis. I know how much you care about her.”

“Yeah. I’ve got to go see her.”

Madelaine turned to him, and saw with surprise that he looked sad. She reached out, grazed her knuckles along his cheek. “What is it, Francis?’

He plunged a hand through his blond hair. She waited for him to laugh, say it was nothing, but he remained uncharacteristically quiet, looking at her now with an unsettling intensity.

“Francis?”

He leaned forward. Their gazes held. The moment spilled out, lengthened in an odd way that made her heartbeat speed up.

Before she could say something, it was over. “It’s nothing, Maddy-girl. Nothing at all.”

She felt—crazily—as if she’d just let him down. “I’m always here for you, Francis. You know that.”

“Yes,” he said, giving her a sad, gentle smile. “I know you are.”

Lina climbed off the hard plastic seat of her ten-speed and set the kickstand. The lightweight bike slid to the left and locked in place. She whipped the helmet off her head and shook out her boy-cut hair, plunging her fingers through the damp, sweaty mass to make it look as spiky and unkempt as possible.