“I have something to tell you,” he said in a quiet, tentative voice that caused a flutter of apprehension in her stomach. “It might upset you.”
She turned to him. “What is it?”
He looked away from her, as if he couldn’t meet her gaze, and her anxiety arced into fear. He’s leaving, just like Mom said he would. He’s going to tell me he doesn’t want to be a dad anymore.
“It’s about my surgery,” he said.
She felt a split second of relief, then another rush of anxiety. “Are you okay?”
He smiled gently. “I’m fine. Pretty good anyway, for …” His voice fell to a whisper, and he stared at her with an intensity that was unnerving. “Pretty good for a guy who had a heart transplant.”
He looked so serious and scared that she almost laughed. “Is that your big ‘I have something to tell you’ thing? God, I thought you were dying.”
“It doesn’t gross you out?”
“Jeez, Dad, I’m a cardiologist’s kid. I grew up in the ICU I’ll bet I know more heart recipients than you do.”
He gave her a sudden smile, then slowly it disappeared. ’That’s not all of it.”
She grinned. “I know, the tabloids were right. You have an alien’s heart.”
He laughed. “Is that the newest?”
They fell silent. Lina leaned back on her elbows and stared out at the spiky black rosebushes along the picket fence.
Angel stretched out beside her. “The thing is this, Lina. I have… I mean, I got…” He drew in a shaking breath and said nothing more.
Lina turned to him. Weak porchlight bathed his face, gave his pale skin a healthy golden glow. Dark brown hair, the color of coffee, spilled away from his face, curled on the light blue denim of his collar. He stared up at the starry November sky and sighed heavily.
Lina could tell that he was having trouble. It was funny, but even a week ago, she wouldn’t have noticed something like that—an adult having trouble knowing what to say. She would have huffed impatiently and told him to spit it out, she didn’t have all day.
But everything in the last few weeks had changed her perspective. And if there was one thing she understood, it was having trouble speaking your mind. So she waited patiently, saying nothing at all.
Finally he tried again. “I’m afraid to tell you this, Lina. I don’t want to hurt you…”
She didn’t look at him. There was no need; she had his face burned into her memory. She wore it like a locket inside her heart. “Uncle Francis used to say, ‘Love hurts, Angelina-ballerina, but it also heals.’ “She sighed wistfully, remembering all the nights she’d sat in just this spot with Uncle Francis, talking about whatever was bothering her. She used to think he’d sit there forever if she asked him to.
“You loved Franco, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I loved him.”
“What if he were sort of… still around?”
“He is,” she said quietly, “he’s in my heart. And Mom’s.”
“And mine.”
He said the words in a different tone of voice than she’d expected—almost flippant. It surprised her, the way he said it, made her wonder suddenly how Angel felt about his brother. They hadn’t seen each other in years, and Francis had never once mentioned that his brother was the notorious Angel DeMarco. “You’re making fun of me,” she said accusingly.
“No. I’m just trying to find a way to tell you some thing, and I’m not having any luck.”
“Just say it. I’m not a baby that has to be protected.”
He turned to face her. Reaching out, he took hold of her hand and placed it against his chest. She could feel the thudding rhythm beneath the soft flannel of his shirt. “Feel my heartbeat,” he said.
She nodded.
“That’s from …” He swallowed hard, looked a little sick. “That’s Francis’s heartbeat.”