Back to Bernadette, who, I surmise, mightknow more than she’s letting on. But after grilling her for tenminutes, Bernadette, who’s pissed Max hadn’t informed her she wasdating someone, doesn’t know jack shit about who that someone mightbe.
Now I’m worried about Max, and I want answersabout my father.
For the ten thousandth time today, I wish Icould pick up the phone and call Ethan. He’d know what to do tofind Max. Even if he didn’t, talking to him about it would make mefeel better. I don’t know if I’ve pouted since I was five yearsold, but I sit in my office pouting because I want Ethan, and Iwant him now.
Nope. Nothing adult going on here at themoment.
When my receptionist buzzes me to let know mynext patient has arrived, I put petulant Theresa away, rearrange myface, and make sure Dr. Calapiano is on duty.
After my patient leaves – a lovelynineteen-year-old who doesn’t know how to say no to her assholeboyfriend – I bite my lower lip and decide I have to do what I haveto do to get answers.
I pick up the phone and call Don AlessandroDi Caro.
***
Of course, I bring him a Christmas present,which took me three days to find. I know he doesn’t need them, butthe platinum cufflinks with two small sapphires in the bottomcorner are elegant, like he is, and they’re understated, which heappears to be, but isn’t.
I push the little box wrapped in shiny silverpaper across the table at the newest Japanese restaurant to open inDutchford. “Merry Christmas.”
“Theresa. This is unexpected and thoughtful.Thank you.” He slips the box into his suit-jacket’s pocket. “MerryChristmas to you too.”
I smile. “Thank you for meeting me.” Again,I’m struck by the resemblance between him and his son. Gio isnearly a mirror image of his father.
“My pleasure. Anytime.” We open our menus,and he asks, “What’s good? I know you’re our resident foodie.”
He’s smooth. I’ll give him that. “I like theBento boxes. You get a little of a lot of things, and thatsatisfies without making you feel stuffed.”
“Sounds appealing.” He spends another minutebrowsing, then puts down the menu. “How are you feeling?”
With him there are no half-truths orprevarications since he seems to know everything you’re going tosay anyway. “Sometimes the scar pulls, but that’s rare now. Mybreathing is no longer impaired, but I won’t be running the BostonMarathon. My endurance will always be compromised.” His amazingblue eyes seem steelier. “But, overall, my doctors say I’ve made aremarkable recovery, due in no small part to the excellent care Ireceived because of you.”
He dips his chin not even in a full nod. “I’mrelieved to hear you’re doing so well. However, the medicalprofessionals did the work. I can’t take any credit for your returnto good health, but thank you.”
That means that part of the conversation isover. Don Alessandro does modest really well. I move to a safertopic. “I spoke to Sofia yesterday. She seems to have an endlesssupply of energy and sounds like she’s on top of the world.”
“She’s happy and is challenged. She wasright. The Tufts program was the right choice.”
I let out a little laugh. “You know I knowyou wish she would’ve waited longer to be married and getpregnant.”
His lips twitch. “Parents’ ideas of what isbest for their children is not always in line with what theirchildren think is best for themselves. In this case, I’ll admit tohaving, shall we say, misgivings, but she chose a good man who willbe the kind of husband I wished for her.”
“He will be. She’s his sun.”
Now he smiles. “As I said, a goodchoice.”
I’ve never been shy with Don Alessandro, andI wasn’t going to start now. “Did you send Sofia to me? Was I yourchoice to be her therapist?”
If he’s surprised or expecting the question,I’ll never know. He’s perfected the blank expression. Not even hisblink response gives him away. “No. I had nothing to do with whoshe chose.”
Great big mental sigh. That would’ve been acloud hanging over our relationship I don’t want. “Good to know. Iwant it to be something she did for herself.”
“Of course you would. Without her making thatfirst step, her recovery would have been compromised.”
I squint. “Did you get a PhD I don’t knowabout?”
He chuckles. “Lived a few years more thanyou. As they say, the school of hard knocks.”
I don’t think anybody has “hit” him in anyway that word can be applied since he was a little kid. And maybenot even then.
