Blessed are the Meek (8 page)

 

Chapter 16

A
FTER WORK,
I drive straight to Donovan's apartment on the shores of Lake Merritt in Oakland.

I'm still a little bit irritated about finding him swooping in to rescue Annalisa in Napa. I know what my therapist, Marsha, would tell me. I can even hear her soothing voice in my head: “Don't run away. Talk to him about how you feel. Tell him you are jealous and feeling insecure.”

See, that's the part that kills me. Admitting I'm jealous of Annalisa goes against every fiber of my being. But, I know it's probably the right thing to do. Marsha's advice is engraved in my head—­I can't truly love unless I make myself vulnerable. My track record of running away instead of facing my emotions hasn't gotten me very far over the years.

The sun is setting by the time I park in front of Donovan's place. All his lights are off. I knock for a few minutes, but nobody answers. I grab my phone and punch in his cell number.

“I'm outside your door,” I say when he answers.

“Sorry, should've called. I lost track of time. I'm at St. Joan of Arc's down the street. Come on over.”

What's he doing? Confessing his sins? I peer down the road, and two blocks away, I see the white church overlooking the lake. When I get there, the front doors are locked.

“Over here.” Donovan is standing over to my left on top of stairs that lead to the rectory. “I want you to meet someone.”

Inside, an elaborate chandelier lights a giant painting of the Virgin Mary. Donovan takes my coat and hangs it on the antique mirrored coatrack.

I look at him with a question in my eyes.

“This way.” He takes my arm and leads me up carpeted stairs. I pull away, and he gives me a look. I'd planned on settling in at his place with some wine and maybe some make-­up time in the bedroom. And instead, he asks me to come to church? Why didn't he tell me he was going to Annalisa's party yesterday? Is he trying to avoid that conversation?

At the top of the stairs, we enter a room lit by a roaring fire in a giant fireplace. To my left is an elaborate mirrored bar built into the wall. Dozens of sparkling crystal glasses—­from rocks glasses to champagne flutes—­line its glass shelves and reflect the firelight.

A man rises to greet me from his plush armchair.

“Ah, it is the lovely Gabriella Giovanni,” he says with a thick Irish accent. “I've heard so much about you. I am thrilled to finally make your acquaintance.”

The man looks to be in his early forties, with a thick head of hair swept back from his sparkly eyes. He reaches over and gives me a kiss on each cheek, European style.

“I'm Father Liam Allegro,” he says, and heads over to the bar. “Please call me Liam. Can I offer you a drink? Sean and I are having bourbon.”

This guy doesn't mess around.

“That sounds lovely,” I say. “You have an Irish accent, but your last name is Italian?”

“My father is from Italy,” he says, turning his back to pour my drink. “He was working in Ireland when he met my mother at the bus stop. Needless to say, he never made it back to Italy. Please have a seat.”

I give Donovan a questioning look, and he pats the couch beside him. I perch on the edge. He rubs my back through my shirt. I'm still perturbed. What are we doing here?

“I've been telling Father Liam about Annalisa and these murders,” Donovan says.

I try not to roll my eyes. Does everything have to do with that woman? Can we not mention her for two seconds?

“The reason I wanted to talk to Father Liam is because he knows Annalisa. But more important than that, he's not only my priest—­he's my friend—­and I need his advice.”

Father Liam hands me my drink.

“You know Annalisa?” I take a sip of the fiery liquid that warms me to my core.

“Yes. Donovan and I have been friends for years. He came to me when he was a monk and met Annalisa.”

“Were you a priest then? You don't look old enough to have been a priest that long ago.”

He chuckles. “I had just begun my priesthood. In fact, the congregation jokingly called me ‘the boy priest' behind my back.”

“Were you the one who told him to leave the monastery for Annalisa?” I try not to sound hostile, but I hear an edge of bitterness in my question.

“Annalisa is possibly the most physically beautiful woman I've ever met,” he says. “But sometimes the most beautiful ­people on the outside become ugly very quickly when you see what they are like on the inside.”

Oh brother. Even the priest has something to say about her looks. Enough. And it hasn't passed by me that he's expertly avoided my question. I've cracked tougher nuts than him. I repeat my question.

“Were you the priest who told Donovan to leave the monastery?”

His eyes glint merrily. “Ah, I forget I'm talking to a reporter. No, I did not tell him that. But I did tell him to listen to his heart.”

Donovan said he'd come here for advice.

“Did you give him that same advice today?”

“I can see why you're good at your job,” he says, laughing.

“I'm sorry,” I say, finally softening. “I'm having a hard time with Annalisa's intrusion into our lives.”

Father Liam nods as he takes a seat in an upholstered armchair by the fireplace, hitching up his jeans delicately. His jeans are Armani. I spotted the label when he turned. They have neatly ironed creases down the middle. He is wearing Italian leather loafers and a light blue sweater. Cashmere?

“Let's say he helped me clarify a few things,” Donovan says. His eyes are mischievous as he grabs my hand and kisses it. He's not usually so affectionate in public. I think I like it.

In the distance, the doorbell rings. Father Liam doesn't move an inch. I wait for him to get up to answer the door, but he reclines even farther back. Off to one side of the parlor is a study, lined with books and a big wooden desk. A small CD player with big speakers is piping Vivaldi into the room. I lean back and relax, as well, nearly forgetting about the doorbell until I hear voices downstairs and boisterous laughter. Donovan and Father Liam get up to greet three men who walk into the room.

Introductions are made. They are all priests. Father Liam fixes them drinks.

“Gabriella, we usually don't have women sit in on our poker night, but you're welcome to stay,” Father Liam says. “We start the game in about half an hour.”

I remember that occasionally Donovan has said he was playing poker with some friends, but I never knew it was with a bunch of priests.

“Oh, no, thank you. As soon as I'm done with my drink, I'll be going.”

“Yes, good idea,” says Donovan, smiling and rubbing my arm. What's gotten into him? While I like it, I can't help but feel a little wary of him being so lovey-­dovey since the last time I saw him, he stormed away in a fury.

“Liam! I brought my
Lord of the Dance
CD,” says one of the priests.

“No, no, not tonight,” Father Liam protests.

I raise my eyebrows at Donovan. He shrugs.

“Come on. Dance for your friends,” another priest says.

“No, they don't want to see an old man dance.”

I laugh. I somehow can't picture the dignified priest dancing in front of a group. Or dancing at all, for that matter.

But the other priests won't let it go. Interspersed between conversation about books, movies, and tales about Ireland, they continue to egg him on.

One young priest with a mop of curly black hair turns to me. “Have you seen him dance?”

I shake my head.

“Liam, are you going to deprive this young woman of entertainment at your residence? I thought you were a better host than that.”

Father Liam shakes his head, but then Donovan prods him. “I, for one, want to see this. Come on, for an old friend?”

“I suppose if I don't, I'll never hear the end of it,” Liam says in a fake-­annoyed voice. His wink and smile to me betray him. “Well, I would never refuse a lady. What is your desire, Ms. Giovanni?”

Without a second of hesitation, I answer. “I'd love to see you dance!”

The priests erupt in hoots, and one walks over to the CD player. The room grows silent. Donovan looks at me in expectation.

The music begins, then, in front of the fireplace, with the flames behind him, Father Liam begins to dance. Arms flat at his side and eyes closed as he feels the music. His feet are a blur of tapping and movement, Irish dancing. I realize my mouth has dropped open, and my eyebrows must be up at my hairline. I don't even turn to see how Donovan is reacting. I can't take my eyes off the dancing priest. The spell is broken when the song ends, and Liam opens his eyes and bursts into laughter. The room erupts in applause, whistling, and hollering.

“Wow.” I can't find any other words. Donovan is sitting beside me, grinning idiotically.

“Father Liam used to compete with Michael Flatley in Ireland, before he got the call,” says the priest with the black curls.

Of course he did.

Not much later, we say our good-­byes and walk back to Donovan's house. Despite my initial irritation, I had a great time at the rectory and hope Father Liam meant it when he said he'd have Donovan and me over for dinner soon.

Instead of the sidewalk, we cross the street to the walking path that circles the lake. Donovan holds my hand, swinging it and whistling. Instead of leading me home, toward his place, he turns and takes me to the end of the lake that is set up like a small Greek amphitheater. He leans against a smooth white porcelain pillar as we look out into the night. The lake is circled with strings of fairy lights, and the downtown Oakland skyline twinkles across the lake. A warm night breeze lifts my hair off my neck and sends pleasant chills down my spine. Gently, Donovan cups my chin in his hand and turns my face toward him.

“Gabriella, after I talked to Father Liam, he helped me figure some things out.” He pauses and takes a breath. I swear he's acting nervous, and this sends butterflies fluttering about in my stomach. “I have to confess something to you.”

Here it comes. Did he cheat on me? I hold my breath, waiting.

“As you know, my first marriage had some difficulties. When I marry again, I'm going to do everything I can to prevent those problems from cropping up again. Before I met you, I wasn't even sure I ever wanted to get married again. ”

His voice is starting to waver. Get married? My stomach, already gurgling in apprehension, does somersaults.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. He's going to propose? Not here. Please. Not here. Not now
. I don't know why the thought sends waves of panic through me, but it does. All I want to do is run away. I quickly try to stop him before he says the fatal words. Or does something like get down on one knee. I speak fast.

“Don't you think maybe this is something we should talk about later? It's been a rough ­couple of days for us. Things have happened really fast, and, frankly, I'm still trying to get over being angry with you.”

He steps back. I see a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes before he looks off at the downtown Oakland skyline. A flock of geese waddle up on the grass nearby, making loud, honking noises.

“You're right,” he finally says. “We should probably head back to my place. We can have this conversation another time.” He puts his arm around me. He probably thinks I'm gun-­shy because I was engaged before. But that's not it.

I know I should feel elated, like any normal woman would if the man she loved was about to propose to them.

But I don't.

A big invisible rock slowly settles into the pit of my stomach.

 

Chapter 17

L
AST NIGHT, AFTER
we got back to his place, Donovan and I kissed and made up, as they say. It was what I needed. No thinking. Only feeling. He told me not to worry about the police questioning me, that it was just standard procedure. I was filled with relief, and every bit of jealousy and anger oozed out of me.

This morning, I feel a renewed sense of hope about our relationship and know that Annalisa is no threat to me. He loves me. And Holy Mary, Mother of God, I think he was about to propose as we walked by the lake. I make a note to call my therapist. I need to talk to her about the panic and irrational fear that shot through me when I suspected that was about to happen.

When I get to the office, I make my cop calls, checking in with all the police and fire departments on my beat.

As soon as I hang up from my last check, my desk phone rings.

“This is Harry Gold, from Napa PD.”

“Hi, Detective,” I say. “What can I help you with today? Got an arrest in the Adam Grant murder to report?”

I know I'm verging on cheeky, but the warning for me to stay in town rubbed me the wrong way. And besides, Donovan says I have nothing to worry about. It's Tuesday, two days since the mayor was murdered. I bet the cops are starting to get a little desperate. “No, no,” he sounds distracted. “Just wanted to go over a few things with you again.”

“Right now?” I say it with a huff. I hear the rustle of papers on his end.

“If you don't mind.”

“Fine, I was meaning to call you, anyway.”

The rustling stops. “Is that so?” He waits.

“Yeah. I remembered something sort of fishy.”

He remains silent.

“It was this woman. She was giving Annalisa Cruz and Adam Grant looks that could kill. And she was sort of talking to herself, mumbling, like she'd sort of gone off the deep end. I thought maybe I'd go talk to her and see what her story was, but when I turned back around, she had disappeared.”

Gold clears his throat. “Disappeared?”

“Couldn't see her anywhere in the backyard.”

There is silence as if he is thinking about that or taking notes.

“Could you describe her?”

“Possibly. I wasn't very close.”

“Okay. We'll come back to that in a sec. Let's go from there. You said you followed Adam Grant and Annalisa Cruz into the house?”

I tell him again how I couldn't find them at first, then heard their voices coming from a bedroom. I know I'm being terse, but I have no intention of making this easy on him. He's wasting his time. I've told him about the suspicious woman, yet he still wants the focus to be on me and what I did.

“And then what did you do?”

Good Lord, I'm going to have to say this out loud in the newsroom? I lean down, ducking my head below the top of my cubicle wall. “I picked a glass off the kitchen counter and went into the adjacent bedroom.”

“And then it says here you were listening in by holding the glass to the wall?” I can feel my face growing warm.

Just then, the hulking form or Kellogg appears above me. He leans on the wall of my cubicle. Shit.

“Yes.” I hold up a finger to Kellogg, who is holding a sheaf of papers.

“Do you think that glass will have your fingerprints on it still?”

“No. It fell to the ground and broke.” I shrug at Kellogg.

“Did you clean up the broken glass?”

Now I feel like a loser. “No. I was in a hurry to get out of there.”

I hear him draw in a breath. “And why were you in a hurry again?”

I let out a loud sigh, and I know my voice shows my exasperation. “Because I didn't want to get caught.” My voice catches on the word
caught.
“Caught
eavesdropping.
It's not something I'm proud of.”

Kellogg's eyebrow rises, and he walks away.
Thank you,
I mouth silently to his retreating form.

Gold is silent on his end. Is he waiting for me to fill the awkward silence? I fiddle with the cord on the phone. I can outwait him.

“Can you describe that woman you say disappeared?” He says “disappeared” like it's in quotes, and he doubts my words. I give him a description, as vague as it is—­pretty, shoulder-­length brown hair, average weight, average height, black bikini. I don't think it narrows anything down much.

He clears his throat when I finish. “Okay, then, I guess that is all for now.”

“Don't you want to ask me if I saw anything else suspicious?”

“Uh, yes, sure. Did you see anything suspicious?” He parrots back at me.

“No,” I say, and hang up.

K
ELLOGG SEES ME
hang up and meanders back to assign me a story—­an obituary—­about a prominent Mexican-­American defense attorney who has died. The story is interesting. The lawyer actually talked a judge into sentencing a former gang member to college instead of prison for a theft conviction.

I'm relieved I have a story to keep me busy today, to keep my mind away from the meeting I have tomorrow with the man who says he knows something about Caterina's kidnapping.

After I spend the day talking to a few judges, Mexican-­American groups, the attorney's family, and the reformed gang member, who is now an attorney himself, I file my story, feeling good about my day. It's gone fast. I've barely thought about tomorrow's meeting with the man who knows about Caterina—­the meeting that could give me the answers I've been waiting for my entire life.