Hope's Angel (32 page)

“Actually, Greg told me. She hasn’t mentioned it.”

The man’s blue eyes came up to focus on her face as he brought the cork
to his nose and sniffed it. “Which makes Greg a Mayflower descendent, of
course.”

Connie gave him a polite smile. “Of course.”

He studied her for a moment longer, then looked down at the cork he was
slowly twisting from its impalement. “I can see why Greg is attracted to you.
You’re very … attractive. And I believe a young man should sow his wild oats
while he can. Before he has to settle down in a long-term relationship.”

Connie did her best not to appear offended. “He’s not sowing any wild
oats with me.”

Mr. Fairchild smiled at the cork in his hand. “I went to law school
with a young man from Hawaii. He was full-blooded Polynesian—except for the
usual trace of whatever it was Captain Cook’s sailors left behind—Irish, I
think. But he had none of the Oriental in him like so many Hawaiians. And he
told me how his parents made it clear that it was his duty to maintain that.
That he must come home and marry a full-Polynesian girl because there were so
few full-blooded Polynesians left.”

“So, you’re saying that Greg needs to marry a Mayflower descendent?” Connie
hoped her face didn’t reflect her amusement at the absurdity of such an idea.

“Not exactly.” Mr. Fairchild’s eyes came up to hold Connie’s with a
cold blue stare. “After all, I don’t fit that.”

“But, at least she should be Anglo-Saxon.”

Mr. Fairchild returned the corkscrew to its drawer, letting his silence
speak for itself.

“Did your friend do as he was told?” Connie asked.

Mr. Fairchild pursed his lips, indicating the answer was irrelevant.
“He wasn’t my friend. He was a fellow student. I really don’t know.” He
proceeded to move around the table, filling three wine glasses with the
ruby-colored wine. When he came to the place setting next to where she stood,
he looked at her and said, “But I suspect that he did. He understood the
importance of such things.”

Connie wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “In a world that’s short
on full Polynesians, absolutely.”

Her inference was not lost on him. He filled the fourth glass, then
looked at her, his face unsmiling. “I don’t worry about the world. All I worry
about is my family.”

Greg and his mother were coming through the door from the kitchen,
bringing the roast and carving utensils to the table. Both were smiling, as
though they had just finished a pleasant conversation, and Connie watched them,
wondering what they might have talked about. Once again, she was struck by how
little she knew about Greg and his family. Yet, he had expected her to say yes
when he asked her to marry him.

Connie and Greg sat together on one side of the table, his parents on
the other. Mr. Fairchild proceeded to slice the prime rib that had been set
before him. Bowls were passed and plates were filled.

Mrs. Fairchild took a sip from her wine glass and looked across the
table at Connie. “Is our cooking too bland for you? I suspect you would prefer
more garlic or whatever. I did put
herbs de Provence
on the root vegetables.”

“Your cooking is delicious.” Connie gave her a warm smile. “This prime
rib is amazing.”

“Gregory tells me you had seven different types of fresh seafood for
dinner last night,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “What an interesting tradition.”

“Miss Balestra and I were just talking about the importance of
tradition.” Mr. Fairchild gave Connie a meaningful stare before he returned his
attentions to his plate.

“I wouldn’t think you could find seven kinds of seafood in Vermont,” Mrs.
Fairchild said. “We had wonderful seafood in Providence. I miss it.”

Connie picked up a roasted carrot with her fork. “Some of ours came
from Boston.”

“Boston? So, you have family in Boston?”

“My sister’s fiancé. He doesn’t live there anymore, but his family
does.”

Mrs. Fairchild’s face lit up. “Oh, my! You have a sister getting
married to a young man from Boston! How exciting! When is the wedding?”

“I don’t think they’ve set a date. He just gave her the ring for
Christmas.” Connie smiled to herself, wondering what the woman would think if
she knew more about David.

“Your parents must be so pleased!” Mrs. Fairchild turned to her
husband. “ I do wish Georgianne and Steven would decide to tie the knot.”

Mr. Fairchild’s eyes were on Connie once more. “Lots of Italians fish
out of Gloucester, don’t they? Is he a fisherman?”

Connie was beginning to enjoy the conversation, pondering where she
might take it. “Nope. He’s not Italian. Not even a smidgeon.”

Beside her, Greg cleared his throat and said, “So, Mom, good old Steve
didn’t pop the big question, huh?”

“Not that I know of. Unless he’s doing it today.” Mrs. Fairchild
glanced at her husband. “He didn’t say anything to you, did he, dear?”

Mr. Fairchild shook his head as he sliced the meat on his plate. “Not
yet. He will.”

“I want to plan a wedding so badly.” She looked across the table at
Connie. “I envy your mother with three girls.”

Greg’s father stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth before shaking his
head. “One wedding will be plenty, once the two of you get going.  I’ll be
paying through the nose.”

“And loving every minute of it.” Mrs. Fairchild gave him a prim smile.
“It’ll be for your baby girl.”

“Maybe we could do it right here in the yard as long as it’s summer,”
he said. “Pitch a couple of those big striped tents for the food.”

Mrs. Fairchild rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

Connie stabbed a parsnip and brought it to her mouth. She was enjoying
the repartee, not sure if Mr. Fairchild was simply trying to provoke his wife
or meant what he said.

“I hear that’s the new thing—getting married outdoors instead of in a
church,” he said. “Reverend Bob could marry them in the garden.”

Mrs. Fairchild sniffed loudly. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Deirdre Hance did it just last year,” Greg said from his position
beside Connie.

His mother sighed. “Gregory, please. The
Hances
? They may be
nouveau riche,
but they’re still gypsies.”

Connie’s hand was poised part way to her mouth with a forkful of
parsnips. She stared at Greg’s mother. The woman had gone back to eating as
though nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

“Really, Mom, they’re from Romania?” Greg’s voice was heavy with
sarcasm.

Mrs. Fairchild pursed her lips in irritation. “You know what I mean.”

You know what I mean
. But, of course. How could Connie have been so
blind? The woman was a social worker. She worked with families with kids that
were—how had Greg put it?—retarded or crippled or had birth defects. Families
that lived back in the hills. Poor Vermont families that didn’t necessarily
welcome her arrival at their door. That was why Greg had reacted so strangely
to her questions about the Vermont Eugenics Survey.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Connie’s face was blanching; she could feel it. Across the table, Mr.
Fairchild was watching her with interest. “Are you all right?”

Greg reached over to take Connie’s left hand from her lap, and when she
turned to look at him, his expression was a combination of concern and chagrin.
His eyes were intent on hers as he said, “Do we need to go?”

Connie didn’t know what to say. Her head was spinning with reasons why
they should leave, yet the well-trained guest in her struggled to keep the
peace, and her pride told her not to let them make her run. She forced a smile
and shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Sorry. I guess I’m just tired from last
night.”

“Well, if you had half as much to drink as my son, I can see why you
might not feel well,” Mr. Fairchild said.

“She’s not a drinker, Dad.” Greg released her hand and picked up his
fork once more. “Her family has a much better handle on alcohol than this one.
They don’t drink for recreation.”

Mrs. Fairchild immediately stiffened, and her face went cold. “I hardly
think that’s a fair statement, Gregory. What does that make your guest think of
our family?”

Greg slammed his fork onto the table beside his plate, and Connie
jumped. “Her name is Connie, Mom, and she’s not my guest. She’s the girl I’m
going to marry, so you might as well get used to using her name.”

Mrs. Fairchild gasped, “Gregory! I don’t understand where that’s coming
from!” and his father yelled, “Apologize to your mother!”

Greg pushed back his chair and stood up. He turned to Connie, his eyes fierce
with anger, and offered her his hand. “We need to go.”

Connie stared up at him, uncertain what to do.

“Let’s go,” Greg said to Connie once more, his eyes burning into hers.

Connie rose to her feet and turned away from the table without looking
at either of his parents.

A chair scraped across the floor behind her, and his father bellowed, “Sit
down
now
and apologize
to your mother, or you are out of this house for good!”

Greg slipped his arm around Connie’s back and propelled her down the
length of the table toward the door. “Just keep going,” he whispered. “It’s
going to be okay.”

Connie’s legs were shaking; she had no idea what would happen next. She
only knew that she had been raised to respect her elders, and everything about
the situation felt so wrong, including the leaving. Yet submitting to his
father’s abusive behavior would only vindicate it, and that didn’t feel right
either.

When they reached the sitting room door, Greg pushed it open and led
her through. The two black Labs rose to their feet to greet them, but he
ignored them, hurrying her through the room and out into the sunlit foyer. He
grabbed their coats from the deacon’s bench where they lay, but kept moving,
ushering her out the front door, into the cold outdoors, without giving her
time to put on her coat.

“I’m sorry,” he said as they stepped out into the frigid December air
and headed down the stone stairs. “I’m so sorry.” He draped her coat over her
shoulders, then rummaged through the pockets of the coat he was carrying over
his arm, pulling out his car keys as they approached the Mustang parked in the
circular driveway.

“Greg, what are we doing?” Connie’s heart was pounding as she hurried
along beside him. “We just—“

“It was time to leave.”

“But your dad—“

“My dad’s had too much to drink.” He bent to open the car door for her
and held her elbow until she was inside.

Connie watched him hurry around the hood of the car and slide in beside
her. “What about your mother?”

“She’s had her share, too.”

“That’s not what I mean. I feel bad—“

Greg was gruff. “Well, you shouldn’t. And I’m sorry for what she said.”

Connie turned away from him to look out the side window at the front
door. Why had Mrs. Fairchild’s comment come as such a surprise? Connie knew
what she did for a living.

Greg turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear. “I asked my
mother about the eugenics survey. She said it was over when she and my dad
moved to Vermont. They shut it down in 1936.”

Connie continued to stare at the house, waiting for someone to burst
through the door and call them back.“Maybe UVM shut it down, but the ideas
didn’t die. Social workers kept developing pedigrees on families. They just
called it Children’s Aid or something. Poor people had plenty of reasons to
stay afraid well into the fifties.”

“I’m sure they did. But I don’t know what her part was.”

Connie turned back and nodded, not wishing to pursue it further. “Maybe
it was nothing. Maybe she really did help them find healthcare and stuff.”

“Sorry you didn’t get to finish dinner.” He drove away from the curb. “One
hell of a Christmas, huh?”

Connie glanced back at the house, picturing a lot of yelling going on inside.
“I wasn’t hungry. Your dad … he …  gave me a speech about sowing wild oats before
keeping the blood lines pure.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

Connie turned in her seat to face him. “How did you see that working,
Greg—me and your family? They don’t want me here.”