She parked in one of the visitor spaces, turned off the engine, and took the black rosary beads from her purse.
She loved this church, but sometimes she couldn’t face going back. This was where Enzo was christened. And eighteen years later, this was where she’d last set eyes on his sweet face before returning him home to Jesus.
She prayed for Enzo’s soul, then checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, locked the car, and walked toward the rectory.
The secretary escorted her to Father Spinelli’s study, and he stood up as soon as she entered the room. He had been a strikingly handsome man when he’d joined the parish at the age of twenty-eight—too good-looking to be celibate, some women said. But now, having just turned fifty, he had evolved into the heart and soul of St. Agnes. People turned to him, respected him, loved him—none more than Teresa Salvi.
“Teresa,” Father Spinelli said, giving her a warm, priestly hug. “I hope all is well with you and Joe.”
The room was small, and the walnut-paneled walls, the heavy furniture, and the dim lighting made it feel even smaller—but intimate, not confining. Teresa took her usual seat on the well-worn leather chair on the other side of his desk.
“Joe and I are doing fine. And how are things here at St. Agnes?” She clutched her purse, ready to take out her checkbook.
“Everything is going remarkably well,” he said, pouring her a cup of tea. “The plumbing, the heating, the electrical—all working, all up to code. It confirms my belief in miracles.”
She put her purse on the floor. “Then why did you…why did you ask me to stop by?”
“Have I been that transparent? Only inviting you for tea when we are in need of a benefactor? Forgive me.”
“Father, you never have to apologize for reaching out to my family on behalf of the church. How can we help?”
He poured half a cup of tea for himself. “Teresa, I didn’t invite you here to ask for your help. It’s my turn to help you.”
She was confused. “With what?”
“I have something I need to give you. Something precious, something personal.” He paused and took a sip of tea. “I know it will open up old wounds, but you’re a strong woman, Teresa. I’ve seen it time and again, and I know your faith will see you through.”
“See me through what?”
He opened his desk drawer and took out a brown manila envelope.
“This belonged to your late son, Enzo, God rest his soul,” he said, passing the envelope across the desk.
Her hand trembled, and her heart raced as she took the envelope.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Open it.”
She tore the top off the envelope and removed the contents.
“It’s Enzo’s diary,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. She ran her fingers gently over the dark red Moroccan leather journal bordered in gold filigree. “I gave it to him when he was thirteen. He carried it all the time. Where did you get this?”
“One of our parishioners brought it to me. She was cleaning house and found it among her son’s things. I knew as painful as it might be for you to have this, it must be God’s will that it turned up after all these years, and I hope you will find some comfort in having this little piece of your son returned to you.”
What parishioner? Where did she find it? Teresa had a million questions. But she was well schooled in the family business. She knew not to ask a single one of them.
Run home. Talk to Joe. He’ll know how to handle this.
Chapter 38
The dim sum at the New Wonton Garden may not have been the best I’d ever eaten, but it was several notches up from the old man’s description of “not so bad.” Of course, I’d never been to Guangdong Province, so when it comes to Chinese cuisine, my Go buddy and I have two completely different sets of standards.
“There’s one left,” I said to Kylie, who had spent most of the meal sitting across from me, watching me eat.
“You finish it,” she said. “I’m pretty full.”
“Yeah. Three pot stickers can fill a girl right up,” I said, and bit into the last shrimp dumpling.
“I’m not that hungry,” she said, rubbing her thumb across the face of her iPhone.
“Do you want to call him?” I said.
“Who?”
“Kylie, I’m not trying to butt into your life, but yesterday Spence wound up in the ER because he was getting high on pills, and this morning you left before you saw him, so when I say ‘Do you want to call him?’ I’m talking about your husband, who you seem to be very concerned about. So, I repeat—do you want to call him?”