Cassandra's Song
Carole Gift Page
A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN?Determined to marry off her widowed father, concert pianist Cassandra Rowlands had finally met the perfect stepmother candidate–only to find herself falling for the woman's son. Enigmatic, reclusive Antonio Pagliarulo was everything Cassandra had learned to avoid. Yet she found herself helplessly drawn to the passionate tenor, certain her feelings couldn't possibly be mutual….After years of self-imposed solitude, Antonio cared about Cassandra more than he had ever dreamed it was possible to love a woman. But he knew the minister's beautiful daughter was no stranger to heartache. He couldn't possibly expect her to understand his secret burden–or why he could never be free to marry….
“Actually, we will be more than friends, Cassandra.”
“More than friends?”
Antonio laughed. “Didn’t we agree to be colleagues in a friendly little conspiracy…?”
“Oh, you mean our parents. Of course!” She raised her water glass. “To your mother and my father…and whatever the future may bring.”
Even as Cassandra and Antonio toasted their harmless matchmaking scheme, she had an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. What was it? What was her heart trying to tell her? She had no words for it, but she sensed she was opening the door to a barrage of emotional complications she had never bargained for. And now, as Antonio clasped her hand across the table, she knew it was too late to turn back….
CAROLE GIFT PAGE
writes from the heart about issues facing women today. A prolific author of over forty books and 800 stories and articles, she has published both fiction and nonfiction with a dozen major Christian publishers, including Thomas Nelson, Moody Press, Crossway Books, Bethany House, Tyndale House and Harvest House. An award-winning novelist, Carole has received the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award and been a finalist several times for the prestigious Gold Medallion Award and the Campus Life Book of the Year Award.
A frequent speaker at churches, conferences, conventions, schools and retreats around the country, Carole shares her testimony and encourages women everywhere to discover and share their deepest passions, to keep passion alive on the home front and to unleash their passion for Christ (based on her inspiring new book, Becoming a Woman of Passion, by Fleming Revell).
Born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, Carole taught creative writing at Biola University in La Mirada, California, and serves on the Advisory Board of the American Christian Writers. She and her husband, Bill, live in Southern California and have three children (besides Misty in heaven) and three beautiful grandchildren.
Cassandra’s Song
Carole Gift Page
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
But God—so rich is He in His mercy! Because of
and in order to satisfy the great and wonderful and
intense love with which He loved us, even when we
were dead (slain) by [our own] shortcomings and
trespasses, He made us alive together in fellowship
and in union with Christ; [He gave us the very life
of Christ Himself, the same new life with which He
quickened Him, for] it is by grace (His favor and
mercy which you did not deserve) that you are
saved (delivered from judgment and made partakers
of Christ’s salvation).
—Ephesians 2: 4-5
In loving memory of my mother-and father-in-law, Alice and Anthony Page (born Antonio Pagliarulo) and in loving memory of their granddaughter and my niece, Karen Geston Abeloe. Your family loves you and misses you deeply.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
A ndrew Rowlands was just changing into something comfortable when his oldest daughter Cassandra peeked inside the bedroom door and said, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Daddy.”
He turned and flashed a generous smile. “Thanks, Cassie. I’ll be right down.”
She didn’t budge, just kept watching him. Her lovely face was doing the thing it always did when she was displeased. Her clear blue eyes darkened, her finely arched brows furrowed, and her heart-shaped lips slipped into a pout. “Oh, Daddy!”
“What’s wrong, kitten?” It was all he could do to hold back a chuckle. Cassie was twenty-six years old, but that childlike scowl brought back memories of a strong-willed toddler who stubbornly held her ground when she wanted something. How often he and Mandy had exchanged helpless smiles when their daughter folded her chubby arms and crooned, “Please, Mommy…Please, Daddy!”
“So what’s up, honey?” he asked now. “You look like you have something to say.”
She shook her pretty blond head. “No, Daddy. It’s just…you’re not going to wear that ratty old sweater to dinner, are you?”
He glanced in the mirror at his rumpled, brown, button-down sweater. “Why not? It’s my favorite. I’ve worn it all my life.”
“I know, Daddy. It looks it! Why don’t you wear your new dress shirt and the tie I gave you last Christmas?”
“For Pete’s sake, I’m only going downstairs to my own dining room for a heaping plate of spaghetti.” Fridays were always spaghetti nights. His youngest daughter Frannie’s specialty. She had become chief cook and bottle washer after Mandy’s death five years ago. A downright good cook she had become, too. Of his three daughters Frannie was most like her mother—a charming little spitfire at heart and oh, so overly protective. As if he needed protecting at his age!
“So will you change, Daddy?” Cassie remained in the doorway, grilling him with her gaze.
“If you insist. But a good white shirt and spaghetti don’t mix well. You know that, especially on laundry days.”
She beamed. “Don’t worry, Daddy. You won’t spill a drop.”
He returned a wry smile. “And if you believe that, my beauty, you’re sadly deluded. I’ll need a bib the size of a pup tent.”
Brianna, his middle daughter, had actually stitched a humongous terry cloth bib for him once—and later made them for her sisters as well—and all his daughters had laughed in bemused delight as she tied it around his neck while he sat, fork and knife ready, to attack a luscious mountain of meatballs and spaghetti. He had smugly devoured the entire plate without so much as a dollop of sauce on that voluminous bib. He had even managed to slip a meatball or two under the table to Ruggs, the family’s mop-haired mongrel mascot, so named because as a puppy he had a penchant for burrowing like a gopher under the throw rugs.
Cassie ignored his comment about the bib. “Splash on some of that smelly aftershave, too, Daddy,” she urged.
Before he could protest, she slipped back out and shut the door. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror and mumbled, “Something’s brewing. Something’s always going on with those three girls. Wonder what—or who—it is this time?”
In deference to his daughters’ wishes—when had he not given in to his daughters?—Andrew reluctantly pulled off his comfy threadbare sweater. With a sigh of resignation he slipped on his starched dress shirt and grabbed the monogrammed silk tie Cassandra had given him last Christmas. He buttoned the shirt and knotted the tie with deft fingers, casting a squint-eyed glance in the dresser mirror at his hefty, six-foot-four frame. Not bad for an old geezer two years short of the half-century mark. He still had his college-football physique in spite of the mountains of spaghetti his daughters had plied him with over the past five years. They hadn’t let him miss a meal, that was for sure. Yes, indeed, they were good girls. The best.
He gazed at the familiar framed photograph of his wife on the bureau. “You’d be proud of your daughters, Mandy,” he said in a husky whisper, his eyes misting over. “They’ve taken good care of me since…since we lost you. Too good. I think they’re matchmaking again. But they should know they’ll never find a woman for me as perfect as their mother.”
A familiar ache rose in his chest. After all this time he still felt a compulsive need to confide all the details of his life to his wife, God rest her soul. He cleared his throat and said aloud, “Mandy, I promise you, I’m as determined to protect our daughters, as they are to find me a new wife.”
He paused, casting a glance around the comfortable bedroom that had been his and Mandy’s for well over twenty years. He hadn’t changed a thing since her death—not the chintz curtains or flowered wallpaper or blown-glass knickknacks. Even her perfume decanters remained on the dresser where he could breathe in her scent when he was lonely.
“Truth is, Mandy,” he said with a weary sigh, “I’m worried about the girls. They should all be out finding themselves husbands—good, decent, godly men—instead of hanging around the house taking care of me. Sure, they’ve got busy lives and successful careers, but I want them to experience the kind of love you and I shared. A special devotion only God can give a man and a woman. But, short of my prayers, I haven’t a clue how to make sure they find that kind of love.”
Andrew ran a comb through his thick, wavy brown hair and, as Cassie requested, splashed some aftershave on his cheeks. He chuckled craftily. “This stuff makes me smell like a perfume factory. Just hope the lady they’ve invited for dinner isn’t allergic.”
With a jaunty flourish he straightened his tie and strode out of the room, his head up, shoulders squared. Time to face the music. Or whatever mystery woman the girls had planned for him tonight. He cast a glance heavenward and smiled. Lord, let this evening not be a total fiasco. I’m sure the girls have worked hard and have the best of intentions. But You know I’m not in the market for a wife, no matter how many socks she can mend or how many soufflés she can bake without collapsing.
He was halfway down the spiral oak staircase, the pungent aroma of well-done roast beef in his nostrils—what happened to the usual spaghetti?—when he heard the melodic voices of his daughters rising from the kitchen. He paused with a bemused smile and listened. Let’s just see what you girls are up to.
Cassandra was shouting into the sunroom just off the kitchen. “Frannie, we need your help! When are you going to finish heaping clay on that monstrosity of a sculpture and come rescue this dinner?”
Frannie, from the sunroom: “It’s not a monstrosity; it’s a bust of Amelia Earhart, and if I stop now the clay will harden.”
“But you’re the cook in the family,” Brianna, his middle child, protested. “Just come check the roast, Frannie. Please! It’s tough as leather. What can we do with it?”
“Play football,” came the miffed retort.
“Good one, Frannie,” said Andrew under his breath from his stairway perch. He laughed in spite of himself. “My mellow, dulcet daughters. The three muses. Should have named them Faith, Hope and Love.”
At the moment their mellifluous voices were rising in shrill desperation. “Frannie, get in here! Bree is scorching the roast!”
“Not me, Frannie. It’s Cassie.”
“Okay, I’m coming. Just give me a minute,” said Frannie, sounding exasperated. “But if the dinner is wrecked, that’s what you two get for trying to marry Daddy off to every unattached woman in town!”
Andrew meandered on down the stairs. He couldn’t stifle another smile. Maybe the humiliation of a burned roast would teach his daughters to lay off the matchmaking. He sauntered into the kitchen where he could see Frannie in the sunroom beside the armature of her latest sculpture; she was in her artist’s smock, wet clay up to her elbows. Cassandra and Brianna stood beside the kitchen stove, peering into a pan that contained a black mound that could have been a large lump of coal or a small meteor that had burned up on entering earth’s atmosphere.
“Daddy, there’s a little problem with dinner,” Bree said. “I was on the phone with a client whose husband ran off with his secretary and left her alone with seven children. She was so upset, I just couldn’t break away—”
“And, Daddy, I was in the music room practicing the piano for Sunday’s cantata,” Cassandra lamented, “and it never occurred to me a roast needed so much water—”
“That’s because you two leave all the cooking to me,” Frannie said, emerging from the sunroom brushing a wisp of golden hair back from her clay-smudged cheek.
“That’s because we both work and you’re here at home…sculpting,” Cassandra stated thickly. “Besides, you always say you love cooking for Daddy.”
“I do, and if I’d had my way, we’d be having our usual spaghetti. It’s Daddy’s favorite.” She looked petulantly at Andrew. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”
“Yes, dear, but I love anything my girls fix, you know that.”
“Even this burnt offering?” challenged Frannie, pointing a clay-caked finger accusingly at the charred roast.
Andrew grimaced. A layer of smoke had settled around the ceiling, and he had to admit the smell was slightly reminiscent of brimstone. “Well, it’s the…the thought that counts. But maybe tonight we might think about going out to dinner.” He flicked his starched collar. “After all, I’m already dressed up.”
“That’s not necessary, Daddy,” said Frannie, going to the sink and turning on the spigot. “I’ll wash up and fix my usual spaghetti.” She gave her sisters a knowing look. “I should have it ready by the time our guest arrives.”
“Guest?” echoed Andrew, feigning ignorance.
Brianna tossed back her long russet hair, her cheeks turning a deep rose. “We’re having company, Daddy. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Why would I mind?” He could play their little game. “Who’s coming to dinner? Someone I know?”
“No, Daddy,” Cassandra said, nervously patting her upswept chignon. Several ringlets of her silky champagne-blond hair bobbed against her high cheekbones as she placed the lid on the roast and carried the pan toward the back door. “I’ll just put this outside where it can’t hurt anyone, and be right back.”
“Don’t feed it to Ruggs,” warned Frannie. “We don’t want to have to rush him off to the vet tonight.”
“Don’t worry, sister dear. I’ll dispose of this culinary disaster in the garbage. You just get that spaghetti started.”
“You girls still haven’t told me. Who’s coming over?”
Bree averted her gaze. “A very nice lady from my counseling center. She’s a child psychologist. We work together sometimes when I’m counseling families going through death or divorce. She’s wonderful with troubled children. You’ll love her, Daddy.”
“What’s her name?” asked Andrew, maintaining a noncommittal tone.
Brianna flashed a beatific smile. “Emma Sorenson.”
“Emma Sorenson?” countered Cassandra, returning inside from the backyard with Ruggs yapping at her heels. The roly-poly, mop-faced animal, probably a hundred in dog years, leaped up eagerly on Andrew, his big paws leaving grimy prints on Andrew’s dress shirt.
“Okay, Ruggsy, boy, that’s enough. Down, boy!”
“What do you mean, Emma Sorenson!” Cassandra repeated, staring Brianna down. “My dear sister, we were supposed to invite Lydia Dibbles, that new lady in church.”
Bree stared back, refusing to be intimidated. “I called Lydia and she wasn’t home, so I asked Emma at work the next day.”
“Well, I saw Lydia at church on Sunday and invited her!” Cassandra’s voice had reached a decibel level that would have amazed even her music teachers at Juilliard.
There was dead silence as everyone recognized their awkward dilemma. Andrew broke the silence good-naturedly commenting, “Ah, now I see. We’re expecting two dinner guests. Marvelous. I’ll put another chair around the table.”
Chapter Two
C assandra moaned in surprise as the doorbell rang. “Oh, no! I’ll get it, but it’s too late to ‘uninvite’ anybody. Bree, hurry and put another place setting on the table. Frannie, turn up the burner under the spaghetti. And, Daddy, get that smirk off your face. This isn’t funny.”
Andrew held up his hands placatingly, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. “I’m innocent in this little caper. But you know what they say, girls. The more the merrier.”
Brianna shook her head in mock despair. “Oh, this is going to be a fun evening. I can see it already.”
“Just keep smiling, girls, no matter what happens!” With that lame bit of advice, Cassandra turned on her stacked heels and strode down the hall to the wide marble entry. She wiped her moist palms on the ruffled apron that covered her knit, lime-green dress, then flung open the double doors with a welcoming smile in place.
Lydia Dibbles, an attractive fortyish matron in a smart pale-blue leisure suit, stood on the sprawling, lattice-trimmed porch. She was a short, buxom woman with bright, violet eyes, a generous smile in her round face, and silver streaks in her auburn hair.
“Lydia, welcome,” Cassandra said with a little too much relief in her voice. Maybe the other woman wouldn’t show up after all and they would be saved the embarrassment of this doomed “double date.” “Come in, please come in.”
Lydia stepped inside. “Thank you, Cassie. My, you look pretty tonight. Your cheeks are red as roses. I bet you’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day.”
“You could say that. May I, um, take your coat?”
Lydia shrugged. “I don’t have a coat, dear.”
Cassie laughed self-consciously. “Of course you don’t.” She was about to shut the double doors when she spied another figure in a gray pantsuit coming up the walk…a tall, slender woman with a brown page-boy and wire-rim glasses.
“Emma? Emma Sorenson?” Cassie asked as the woman scaled the porch steps.
“Yes, I’m Emma. And you must be Brianna’s sister.”
“Yes, I’m Cassie, the oldest.” She beckoned Emma inside. “I’m so glad you could come to dinner, Emma.” Cassie looked apprehensively over at Lydia and added, “Both of you.”
The two women gazed at each other and exchanged polite but curious smiles.
“Emma, this is Lydia,” Cassie said brightly. “Lydia, Emma.”
“Goodness, I didn’t realize this was going to be a party,” said Lydia, looking mildly flustered.
“Just a small dinner party,” Cassie assured her. “Come with me, ladies.”
“You have a lovely home,” Emma stated, gazing around as they passed through the parlor to the dining room. “Such a stately old house. I bet it has a wonderful history.”
Cassie chuckled and said under her breath, “Oh, yes, we’re making history in this house all the time.”
As they entered the dining room, her father came to her rescue, bounding toward their visitors as if two guests had been the operative number all along.
“Well, ladies, welcome! I’m so glad you could join us for dinner.”
“Thank you, Reverend Rowlands,” Lydia said shyly. “I’ve so enjoyed your messages. You have a wonderful way of speaking. I always leave church feeling blessed.”
“Well, thank you kindly. You’ve certainly made my day.”
“Daddy, this is Lydia Dibbles,” said Cassie. “And this is Emma…”
“Sorenson. Your daughter Brianna and I work together at the family counseling center, Reverend Rowlands. She has a heart of pure gold, that girl. Folks love her.”
“Yes, she has a real heart for people,” said Andrew, leading the two women toward the linen-draped table. “And, please, both of you call me Andrew. The title Reverend intimidates even me.”
Lydia twittered, “Oh, Andrew, what a precious sense of humor you have!”
While her father kept their two guests entertained, Cassandra excused herself and headed for the kitchen. “Is the salad ready, Bree? Let’s get this dinner over with before everything blows up in our faces.”
Bree tossed the salad greens. “Let’s not panic. Maybe Daddy won’t mind having two dates.”
“Are you kidding?” countered Frannie as she drained the pasta. “Until a few minutes ago he didn’t even know he was having one date! If you two keep up your matchmaking schemes, Daddy will banish the three of us from this house.”
Cassandra stared skeptically at her youngest sister. “Why on earth would he do that? He loves having us here. We’re all he has.”
“And all he needs,” Frannie said. “Daddy’s perfectly happy with things just the way they are, so why shouldn’t we be, too?”
Brianna placed silver tongs in the salad bowl. “But we’ve got to be realistic, Frannie. Someday the three of us will want lives of our own. We’ll get married and move away. Then who will take care of Daddy?”
“Move away? Speak for yourself,” Frannie said. “I have no plans to leave home. I like it here. I like taking care of Daddy.”
“We all do,” conceded Cassie. “We have a wonderful family. I don’t know of any family as close as we are. But, still, someday one of us might meet someone and decide to…to get married.”
“Bite your tongue,” said Frannie with a grudging little smile. “I’m only twenty-two and I’ve still got to establish my reputation as a serious artist.”
Bree nodded. “I know, but I’m already twenty-four and wouldn’t mind meeting the right man. And with Cassie twenty-six, she’ll need to start thinking about her biological clock one of these days.”
“My biological clock?” Cassie exclaimed with mock indignation. “We’re talking about Daddy here, not me. And my biological clock is doing just fine, thank you.”
“I didn’t mean anything negative,” Bree assured her. “It’s just that you might want to start thinking about having a home and family of your own.”
Cassie put her hands on her hips and stared hard at her sister. “So what is it, Bree? Now I’m an old maid needing a man to make me feel fulfilled? That concept went out in the last century!”
Bree stared right back. “For heaven’s sake, Cassie, I’m just trying to make Frannie understand why we’re trying to find the right woman for Dad. Then any one of us can feel free to get married or travel or whatever. We won’t have to feel guilty about leaving Daddy to shift for himself.”
“Well, you two can go if you want to,” Frannie said with a determined little pout, “but I’m staying right here. Nothing could make me leave.”
“I’m not planning to leave either,” Cassie agreed. “I have my music, and I’m not about to let any man distract me from becoming a concert pianist. So there.”
“Well, I’m not leaving, either,” Bree said. “Besides, where would we find a woman who deserved our dad?”
“Fine,” Frannie huffed. “So let’s serve dinner and send our guests on their way.”
For the first few minutes, dinner went well. Brianna served the salad, Cassie the garlic bread and Frannie the spaghetti. The conversation around the table was polite, if a bit reserved. Then their father asked the question Cassie was dreading.
“Where are our bibs, Bree?”
“Bibs?” repeated Lydia Dibbles, mystified.
“Bibs?” echoed Emma Sorenson, her penciled brows rising.
“Yes, bibs,” Andrew stated as if his meaning were obvious. “We can’t eat spaghetti without bibs.” He smiled patiently at Emma and Lydia. “Brianna made us these gargantuan bibs that keep the tomato sauce off our clothes. She started with one for me.” He speared a meatball and held it up, red sauce dripping from the fork’s tines. “As you can see, I’m clumsy as they come.”
“A bib for adults! What a clever idea,” Lydia said.
Andrew nodded. “Exactly! And soon we were all using them. They free you up to slurp your spaghetti strands, if that happens to be your thing. I never could get the hang of twirling spaghetti on my fork.”
“Daddy,” Cassandra interrupted sharply, “I’m sure our guests don’t want to wear bibs. Bibs are for babies, toddlers…”
“Nonsense! Why wouldn’t they want to protect those lovely outfits?” With a twinkle in his eyes Andrew jumped up from the table, strode to the buffet and removed what appeared to be a stack of white terry cloth towels.
Cassie lowered her gaze and shook her head as her father tied a bib first around Emma’s neck and then Lydia’s. He went on to fasten a bib around each daughter’s neck, planting a kiss on the tops of their heads, and finally he tied a bib around his own neck and sat down, looking quite pleased with himself.
The women seemed dumbstruck at first as they gazed down at their enormous bibs, but then they began to giggle, and soon everyone in the room was laughing uproariously and making outrageous jokes.
“If we were wearing black, we’d look like penguins,” Emma said with a chuckle.
“I could wear this to the beauty shop when I have my hair done. It’s certainly large enough,” Lydia observed.
“Have you thought of going into business, Andrew?” suggested Emma. “Marketing bibs for adults. I’m sure it’s a fad many of us would welcome. You could personalize them. Oh, there’s no end to what you could do. Cover them with pictures, make them in bright colors…”
“What a wonderful idea, Emma,” said Lydia. “I may try my hand at a few myself. I know several little craft stores that might welcome them.”
“I wouldn’t mind working with you, Lydia. I have a sewing machine and have been known to be quite a seamstress in my time.”
“Oh, that might be fun, dear. What do you think, Andrew? Would you mind us taking your idea and running with it?”
“No, of course not, although maybe you should check with Bree. It was her idea in the first place.”
“No, that’s fine,” Brianna said quickly. “I’d love to see what the two of you come up with.”
When everyone had finished their spaghetti, Cassie served coffee and Frannie brought out her special strawberry shortcake for dessert. It was obviously a favorite of everyone’s.
When at last dinner was finished, Cassie breathed a little sigh of relief. Considering the catastrophe she had expected this evening to be, everything had gone amazingly well. Lydia and Emma were already behaving like long-lost friends, and her father seemed to be genuinely enjoying the company of his two dates. But now that dinner was over she wanted to send them on their way before she pushed her good fortune too far.
“Well, it’s been wonderful having you both here,” she told her two guests as she collected the dessert plates. It’s just too bad we have to make it an early evening. Daddy has to work on his sermon tonight, you know.”
“Oh, yes, Daddy,” Frannie chimed in, “don’t forget your sermon. You must still have hours of research to do.”
Her father looked from daughter to daughter with a question mark in his eyes. “My sermon?” He broke into a self-satisfied grin. “Actually, my sermon is done. I’m as ready for Sunday as I’ll ever be.”
“But, Daddy, you can’t be,” protested Frannie.
“Oh, but I am, muffin.” He grinned slyly. “I’m speaking on the importance of letting God do His work in our lives rather than trying to orchestrate the future ourselves. After all, we end up in quite a pickle when we try to—”
“Yes, Daddy, we get the message,” Cassie said, sweeping over and helping her father take off his bib. “I’ll collect the bibs, and then we can…we can, uh…”
Her father broke in. “Why don’t we adjourn to the music room and let Cassie give us a preview of Sunday’s cantata?”
“Oh, that would be delightful,” said Emma.
“No, Daddy, I really couldn’t tonight.”
Andrew wasn’t about to be deterred. “Well, then let’s gather around the piano and have an old-fashioned hymn sing. How about it, ladies?”
Emma clapped her hands. “Oh, I love to sing. What about you, Lydia?”
“I’m not much of a singer, but I’ll give it the old college try.”
Brianna and Frannie cast sidelong glances at Cassie, as if to ask, Now what do we do? Cassie shrugged helplessly, her arms filled with bibs. Nothing about this evening was going the way she had expected.
Her father gave a contented sigh. “Good dinner, girls. You outdid yourselves as usual.” He pushed back his chair and stood, then helped Emma and Lydia out of their chairs. As he motioned the women toward the music room, he tweaked Cassie’s cheek and said, “You’ll come play for us, won’t you, cupcake?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Sure, Daddy, I’ll be right there.”
“And Bree and Frannie, you’ll join us, too, won’t you?” her father urged. “You girls have such lovely voices.”
“Sure, Daddy,” they said in unison.
For the next two hours they sat around the piano singing every hymn they could recall, Cassie’s tapered fingers moving expertly over the ivory keys as her father’s rich baritone blended with his daughters’ lyrical sopranos and the eager, if unpracticed, altos of their two guests.
At some point Cassie lost track of time and realized, to her surprise, that she was thoroughly enjoying the evening. In fact, it was obvious that everyone was having a marvelous time, especially her father and his impromptu dates.
It was nearly midnight when Lydia and Emma said their reluctant good-nights, “Dear girls, we must do this again very soon! Your father is such a treasure! You must be so proud!” and slipped off into the night, chatting amiably, as if they had known each other forever.
With the ladies gone, Andrew beckoned his daughters close and drew them into what might have been a football huddle, his arms draped around their shoulders, their heads all nearly touching at the forehead. “My darling daughters,” he said in a soft, wily voice, “I know you love practicing your matchmaking schemes on me, but setting me up with two dates in one night? Isn’t that a bit much even for you?”
“Oh, Daddy, we didn’t mean to,” Brianna exclaimed. “I invited Emma—”
“And I invited Lydia,” Cassie said. “I didn’t know about Emma until—”
“Well, girls, next time coordinate your efforts, okay?” Andrew’s expression grew solemn, the sea-blue of his eyes deepening. “In fact, I would prefer that there be no more matchmaking efforts on my behalf. Is that understood?”
“But, Daddy,” protested Cassie.
“No buts, Cassie. I’m very happy with my life just as it is.” An unexpected tenderness softened his voice. “I had a wonderful life with your mother. She was the love of my life, and I don’t expect to find another woman I could love that way again. So, please, promise me, no more conniving to get me to the altar again. Promise?”
“Promise, Daddy,” Frannie agreed.
Brianna looked reluctant, but finally acquiesced. “Promise.”
Cassie turned away, silent. There was no way she could make such a promise. She knew what her father needed even if he didn’t…an extraordinary woman who would love him with the kind of passion and devotion that would erase the grief and loneliness she saw in his eyes when he thought nobody was looking.
Somewhere in this vast, wide world there had to be such a woman.
Chapter Three
O n Saturday morning—a balmy, early autumn day—Frannie poked her head inside Cassie’s door and whispered, “You awake, sleepyhead?”
Cassie rolled over and burrowed her head under the pillow. “No, go away. After last night’s fiasco, I want to sleep till noon!”
Frannie slipped inside the room and curled up on a corner of the four-poster bed. “It wasn’t so bad. We actually had fun, didn’t we? And Dad was a good sport, don’t you think? So it all turned out okay. As long as we don’t try playing matchmaker again.”
Cassie pulled her tousled head out from under the pillow and looked at her youngest sister through bleary eyes. Frannie was sitting cross-legged in her PJs, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders to the middle of her back. “Fran, did you wake me up just to rehash last night?”
“Of course not.”
“We’re not having more dinner guests tonight, are we?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Good!”
“But I, uh, have a favor to ask.”
Cassie fluffed her pillow under her head and closed her eyes. “Your timing is lousy, sis. Whatever it is, no!”
“Then you won’t go?” Frannie’s tone was petulant.
Cassie opened one eye, her curiosity rising in spite of herself. “Go where?”
“To the concert tonight.”
“What concert?”
“At the university.”
“San Diego State?”
“Of course. What other school is there?” Frannie drew in a breath and rushed on. “Antonio Pagliarulo is performing.”
Cassie sat up and forked back her mop of unruly hair. “Who?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“Antonio Pagliarulo. A fantastic tenor. He teaches music at the university. You teach in the music department. Surely you know him.”
“I’m part-time faculty. I go, teach my two classes, and disappear again. Full-timers don’t mingle with part-timers.”
“Well, I’m only a teacher’s assistant, and I’ve heard of Antonio Pagliarulo.”
“Okay, so I’ve heard of him. They say he’s a recluse, a loner, a snob. Lives in a mansion overlooking the ocean and never socializes with anyone.”
“So?” countered Frannie. “They say he’s as handsome and mysterious as an old-time matinee idol and has a voice like Pavarotti.”
Cassie swung her long legs over the bed. “Okay, you win. I’ll go with you to the concert.”
“Oh, I’m not going,” said Frannie quickly.
“Not going? You just invited me!”
Frannie’s blue eyes flashed. “I want you to go so I can stay home.”
Cassie covered her ears. “Oh, no, I don’t want to hear this!”
Frannie sat up on her knees and seized Cassie’s hand. “Please, sis,” she implored, “just do this one favor for me and I’ll never ask again. I’ve got a date to the concert with Gilbert Dooley.”
“Gilbert Who-ley?”
“He’s very nice. He teaches at the university.”
“And I’m to fill in for you? No way. You always come up with some oddball—”
“He’s not odd at all. He’s a professor, a brain like you, like—”
Cassie managed a teasing smile. “Then what is he doing dating you?”
“We’re not dating. It’s purely platonic. He teaches physical science. We bump into each other once in a while. He said he got the last two concert tickets, and in a moment of weakness I agreed to go with him.”
“Then go.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to stay home and finish my sculpture before the clay hardens. If I don’t, Amelia Earhart will end up looking like Daffy Duck!”
“Amelia Earhart is dead.”
“I know, but I’m bringing her back to life…in clay. Please, Cassie.”
Cassie sank back on the bed with a weary sigh. “All right, I’ll go. But you owe me, Frannie. You owe me big!”
Later that afternoon, as Cassie swirled her saffron hair into a French twist, she was already sorry she had given in. She had no desire to go on a blind date with anyone, least of all some science professor who would probably talk theorems all evening. Or was that math? Whatever.
Hoping for a look that was simple, elegant and tastefully understated, she slipped into a black crepe dress with a tunic top and ankle-length skirt. Good, it was just the look she wanted—classic but certainly not provocative.
Gilbert Dooley arrived at the stroke of six, as he had promised. After his initial surprise, he seemed to take the date switch with surprising aplomb and civility. Or maybe he was a better actor than Cassie suspected. One thing for sure, he was definitely not Frannie’s type. Nor Cassie’s! Tall, middle-aged and balding, he was as lean as a windlestraw, with pale-white skin and faded gray eyes behind enormous bifocals.
On the way to the concert hall in Gilbert’s antediluvian sedan, he kept up a steady stream of conversation, enlightening her as to the laws of thermodynamics, time dilation and universal gravitation. But he became most impassioned when speaking of his favorite topic, the superconducting supercollider.
“Can you imagine, Cassandra?” he enthused. “It has the potential of being the world’s largest particle accelerator. Think of what it will tell us about the Big Bang!”
“I can only imagine,” Cassie mumbled. In her mind she was plotting ways she would get back at her youngest sister. She could spike her oatmeal with raisins—she hated the chewy little beasts—or she could tie her socks in knots or put ice cubes in her bed. No, she hadn’t pulled those pranks since she was ten. There had to be some suitable, but harmless, pranks for grown-up sisters to play on one another.
Cassie and Gilbert arrived at the concert hall with ample time to spare. She cringed a little when two of her students passed by and rolled their eyes as she and the professor walked down the aisle to their seats. She wanted to call out, He’s not my date! I don’t even know what I’m doing here!
At least they had good seats, center section, four rows from the stage. Cassie had performed enough concerts of her own that she always felt a heart-pounding excitement when the house lights lowered and a white-hot spotlight carved a luminous circle out of the hushed darkness. It was happening now, the audience din shrinking to silence as the enormous red velvet curtain rose to reveal a lone man on center stage. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he was tall, dark and imposing, his shoulders as broad as his waist was narrow, an aristocratic air in his demeanor.
As the orchestra began to play, Antonio Pagliarulo launched into an Italian aria with the richest, fullest, most enchanting tenor voice Cassie had ever heard. She sat mesmerized, dazzled, disarmed. No matter what anybody said about this man, he could hold an audience spellbound.
During her two semesters of part-time teaching, Cassie had passed Antonio occasionally on the university campus, but hadn’t bothered to give him a second glance in spite of his swarthy good looks. For too many years she had disciplined her mind to concentrate only on her music, her career. Focusing on attractive men would only divert her from her lifelong goals. Besides, she had already been burned once and wasn’t about to risk a broken heart again. But now, tonight, she was seeing this talented, enigmatic man with new eyes. She liked what she saw…and was hopelessly enraptured by what she heard.
It seemed only minutes had passed and already Antonio was singing his final number. When the audience gave him a standing ovation, Cassie was one of the first to stand. She applauded until her palms stung. Then, all too soon, it was time to leave.
“There’s a reception for Mr. Pagliarulo in the faculty hall, if you’d like to go,” Gilbert told her as they made their way out of the crowded auditorium.
“I’d love to,” she said without hesitation.
A gentle breeze was rising off the ocean as Gilbert escorted Cassie across the darkened campus to the faculty hall. He held her elbow to keep her from falling, and to her relief was no longer talking about centrifugal force and cold fusion. In fact, he seemed as enthralled by Antonio Pagliarulo’s voice as she was. “I rarely go to programs like this,” he was saying, “but Tonio has been more than a colleague to me, he’s been rather like a confidant. So I promised him I would attend one of his concerts.”
“You’re saying Antonio Pagliarulo is a good friend of yours?” Cassie asked, hardly hiding her surprise.
Gilbert’s countenance grew pink. “I admit, Cassandra, I’m not a very social person, but yes, Tonio’s been a good friend to me.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that I’d heard Antonio was a loner, snobbish, reclusive.”
“I suppose he is, to most people. But that’s not the man I know.”
“I…I’d like to meet him.”
“Then I’ll introduce you.”
The faculty hall was brimming with people, most of them converging on Antonio. Cassie shook her head. There was no way to get close.
“Don’t worry,” said Gilbert. “We’ll have some refreshments and wait for the crowd to thin out.” He led her over to a row of straight-back chairs lining one end of the hall. “Sit down and relax. I’ll get us something to eat.”
Taking the closest chair, Cassie sat down and smiled politely at the attractive woman walking toward her. In her mid-forties, she was an exotic beauty, with ebony hair, olive skin, red lips and flashing coal-black eyes. Wearing a stylish red velvet evening dress swishing over rounded hips, she was a startling contradiction of elegance and flamboyance.
The woman flashed a beaming smile as she pointed to the empty chair beside Cassie. “May I?” she asked with the hint of an accent.
“Please do. I guess we both had the same idea. It’ll be a half hour at least before we can get through the crowd to greet Mr. Pagliarulo.”
“Oh, I wasn’t waiting for the crowds,” said the woman. “I just wanted to sit down. I never should have worn these insufferable three-inch heels tonight. Next time I will wear my comfortable bunny slippers. I don’t care how silly I look, at least my feet will not be in pain.”
Cassie stifled a spurt of laughter. The idea of this sophisticated matron wearing bunny slippers was hilariously implausible.
“You think I am speaking in jest,” the woman said, her smile expanding to reveal perfect white teeth. “Watch this.” With a little flourish she kicked off her shoes and wriggled her stockinged feet. “See? That is much better. Now I may survive this night. Or do I embarrass you with my lack of manners?”
Cassie chuckled in spite of herself. “Oh, no. I love people who aren’t afraid of what other people think.”
“Then you are a young lady after my own heart,” said the woman, patting Cassie’s hand. “My name is Juliana. What is yours?”
“Cassandra. But most people call me Cassie.”
“I prefer Cassandra,” said Juliana with a little wave of her hand. “It is a regal name. A name for a princess. It fits you well.”
Cassie smiled. It was Juliana who looked like a princess. Better yet, a queen. “I assure you,” said Cassie, “I’m no princess.”
“But you carry yourself like one. What do you do? Are you in music…theater? I can imagine you onstage.”
Cassie felt her cheeks glow. “How did you know?”
“I see it in your face, the way you carry yourself. You are a creative person. I guessed music because you are here at this concert.”
“I’m a pianist,” said Cassie. “I’ve performed a few concerts, but nothing as impressive as this. I teach a couple of piano classes here at the university. And I’m the music director at my father’s church.”
“Your father’s church? That is wonderful,” said Juliana. “It is good to use one’s talents for God.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I would love to hear you play sometime.”
Cassie hesitated. “I—I am playing in a cantata tomorrow night.”
“Is it nearby?”
“The Cornerstone Christian Church in La Jolla.”
“Oh, that isn’t far from here. I might be able to attend.”
“That would be wonderful.”
But would she really show up? Cassie wondered. People were always promising to get together or do lunch or stop by, but they rarely followed through.
Juliana touched Cassie’s arm with graceful, tapered fingers. “You do not believe I will come, do you?”
“Oh, no, I—”
“But I will. I must ask my son. He drives me. I have no sense of direction. I would end up in the ocean on my way to Hawaii instead of La Jolla. So I will ask my son and he will bring me.”
“Oh, do come. Both of you,” said Cassie. “Bring the rest of your family, too. Your husband—”
“My husband has been dead for many years, so it can only be my son and me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cassie quickly. “Listen, I’ll write out the directions for your son. The cantata is at 8:00 p.m., but the church will be crowded, so you may want to come around seven.” Like a lightning bolt, an idea struck Cassie straight out of the blue, but she recognized it instantly as pure genius. This Juliana was a woman even Cassie’s hard-to-please father might find fascinating. No harm in setting something up and seeing what happened.
“Maybe you would like to join my family afterward for a bite to eat,” Cassie suggested, her plan already brewing. “I would like you to meet my father…and my sisters, too, of course.”
“Your invitation is very generous,” said Juliana warmly. “I will ask my son. If he has no prior commitment, we will join you.”
“Wonderful,” said Cassie with a pleased little smile.
Their conversation broke off as Gilbert returned with two plates of finger sandwiches and cake and paper cups of red punch. He sat down beside Cassie and handed her a plate and cup. “The crowd is thinning out,” he noted. “After we eat I’ll introduce you to Tonio.”
“Fine,” she said with a nod, then introduced Gilbert to Juliana. “Gilbert and I will be making our way through the crowd to meet Mr. Pagliarulo. Would you like to join us, Juliana?”
The woman flashed a whimsical smile. “Yes, I may do that. So you have never met Mr. Pagliarulo?”
“I’ve seen him come and go in the fine arts building, but we haven’t met.” Cassie lowered her voice confidentially. “I’ve heard he is something of a recluse. A loner. Not easy to know. Does he strike you as snobbish or arrogant?”
Juliana’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, is that how he seems to you? A snob?”
“No, not really. Not when he was onstage. He was absolutely wonderful. But I’ve heard others say—”
Juliana wriggled her stockinged feet back into her shoes and stood up with a jaunty shake of her head. “Come! Let us go see if this Antonio Pagliarulo is an arrogant, unsociable man.”
Flustered, Cassie handed Gilbert her plate and cup and followed Juliana across the hall. “I didn’t mean…Juliana, wait, please.” Gilbert caught up with them, dropping the paper plates and cups into a trash receptacle. Juliana briskly carved a path for them through the remaining cluster of fans.
And suddenly Cassie found herself face-to-face with the handsome, mysterious Antonio Pagliarulo. He gazed down at her with shrewd, dark eyes, a smile playing at the curve of his lips. In person, up close, he seemed even more imposing than he had onstage. Larger than life, his very presence was stunning, unnerving. She found herself feeling as tongue-tied as a schoolgirl.
Gilbert spoke up, his voice taking a shrill high note. “Tonio, I’d like you to meet my date, Cassandra Rowlands.”
Cassie offered her hand, even though it was trembling and her palm was moist. “Mr. Pagliarulo, I—I enjoyed your performance immensely,” she breathed.
He clasped her hand in both of his. His touch was warm, electric, his solemn gaze riveting. “How do you do, Miss Rowlands?”
Cassie turned to Juliana. “Mr. Pagliarulo, I’d like you to meet—”
With a little burst of laughter, Antonio sprang forward and gathered the dark-haired Juliana into his arms. Cassie stared in mute astonishment as the two embraced. “Antonio, you were marvelous this evening,” Juliana enthused.
Antonio held her at arm’s length and boomed, “You always say that, Mama.”
The terrible truth dawned. Cassie gaped at the two. Of course! Mother and son! They even possessed the same striking features, the same coloring, the same bright buoyancy of spirit.
Good heavens, thought Cassie. What awful things did I say to Juliana about Antonio? That he was reclusive, a snob…oh, why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut!
Juliana tucked her slim arm in Antonio’s and smiled in gentle amusement at Cassie. “Antonio, Miss Rowlands was very impressed with your music. So impressed that she has invited us to see her perform tomorrow night at her church. Are we free?”
Antonio flashed a quizzical smile. “Are you a singer also, Miss Rowlands?”
“No, I—I’m a pianist.”
He studied her with an intensity that left her feeling weak inside. “You look familiar, Miss Rowlands. Have I seen you perform?”
She struggled to find her voice. “No. I teach a couple of piano classes here at the university. We’ve passed each other in the fine arts building or on campus.”
“Ah, yes, that’s it. I knew I had seen you before. I would never forget such a lovely face.”
Cassie’s cheeks grew warm with a dizzying mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “You’re very kind, Mr. Pagliarulo.”
“Call me Antonio, please. After all, we are colleagues.”
“Then please call me Cassandra. Or Cassie.”
“I prefer Cassandra. It has the lilting ring of music. Now tell me about your performance tomorrow evening.”
Cassie groped for words. What was there about Antonio Pagliarulo that left her feeling so rattled and unsure of herself? “It’s—it’s not a big production really,” she stammered. “Just a little church cantata at—at Cornerstone Christian in La Jolla. I happened to invite your mother, but I didn’t realize…I mean, I’m sure a musician of your stature must have other obligations.”
Antonio clasped her hand reassuringly. “Not at all, Cassandra. Mother and I reserve our Sundays for worship. We would be pleased to come hear you perform at your church tomorrow night. It would be a treat to be in the audience for a change instead of onstage.”
“Wonderful,” said Cassie, her smile so tight she feared her teeth might break. What had she gotten herself into? She would be a basket case performing before this man. Had she somehow taken leave of her senses? Until this evening Antonio Pagliarulo had been a stranger to her; now suddenly his opinion of her mattered more than anything she could imagine.
Chapter Four
A ndrew Rowlands was sitting in his squeaky rocker by the bay window in his bedroom, listening to the clock strike midnight and wondering why his oldest daughter hadn’t come home yet. Usually this was his favorite place for studying the Bible and thinking and praying. And, at times like this, worrying. How could he sleep well until he knew all of his daughters were safely in for the night?
Still, he chided himself for fretting. Cassie had gone to a concert with a man who seemed harmless enough—a mild-mannered fellow who looked like a bookish and absentminded professor. He was surely not Cassie’s type, but then, who on earth was Cassie’s type? Except for that one unfortunate incident years ago, she had never been serious about any man. And to make matters even more frustrating for Andrew, she didn’t even appear to be looking for a suitable young man. At this rate she would surely end up an old maid.
All right, they didn’t call them that anymore. Old maids. These days there was no stigma attached to being unattached. Unmarried. Lots of young women preferred the single life.
But that’s not what Andrew wanted for his daughters. He wouldn’t be around forever to look after his girls, and after he was gone, who would be there for them? Sure, they had one another, but they each needed a strong, capable, trustworthy man to be there when the road got tough.
“Mandy, what are we going to do about our girls?” Andrew said aloud in a soft, husky voice. He gazed out at the full moon hanging in the dark heavens like a beacon light. That pale white globe was always comforting, reassuring. That familiar moon had remained steady and bright in the night sky, sometimes full and brimming, sometimes little more than a fingernail, but so often there through his long nights of grieving.
It was as if God had personally given Andrew the moon and stars for his own private comfort. They were reminders that God Himself was there, never changing, always ready to console. Andrew couldn’t have made it these past five years without God’s sweet solace.
“Lord, I’m concerned about my girls,” he said, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. “I want them to have husbands and families of their own, but they still seem perfectly content to stay here at home with me. As much as I enjoy having them around, I think it’s high time they stop fussing over me and establish their own lives and homes. What do you think, Lord? I’m right, aren’t I?” He shook his head ponderously. “But I can’t tell them to move out. It would break their hearts to think I don’t need them anymore. And to be honest, Lord, I do need them.”
Andrew gazed off into the shadows of his room for a moment. He had prayed this prayer often in recent days, but he still didn’t have an answer to his dilemma.
In the old days his dear Mandy always knew what to do. She was the perfect mother with just the right balance of love and discipline. He still remembered how she would check on the girls each night. Like a fragile wraith in her long white cotton nightgown, her red hair twining around her shoulders, she would flit from room to room, peeking in the door to be sure her daughters were slumbering peacefully. Andrew hadn’t realized what an arduous task and yet what a privilege mothering was until he was forced to be both mother and father.
“Mandy, I’m doing the best I can for our daughters, but I sure miss you, sweetheart.” He sat forward and raked his fingers through his thick russet hair. “And I know the girls have suffered deeply from the loss of their mother. Cassie has thrown herself into her music career. Practices hours every day. She’s beautiful, talented and ambitious, but sometimes I think she puts all of her emotions into the piano, so she won’t feel the pain of losing you…plus that no-good scoundrel who broke her heart the year after you died. Sure, Cassie loves her music, but that won’t replace the love of a good man someday.”
Andrew put his head in his hands. “And our darling Bree is much too serious about her counseling work. She’s always helping others and bringing home every poor, needy soul who needs a place to stay, but she refuses to allow herself a serious romantic relationship. And Frannie, our baby, has taken over the household and does the cooking and watches over me like a little mother hen. But she should be pampering a husband, not me.”
Andrew stared up again at the star-studded sky, moisture gathering in his eyes. “You would know what to do, Mandy. You would know how to encourage and guide our daughters in matters of the heart. You would know how to set them free and shoo them out of the nest so they could create their own homes and families. Me, I’m awkward at these things. I don’t know the right words. You know me better than anyone, Mandy. You polished a lot of rough edges, but I’m still a bull in the china shop. All thumbs. Two left feet. I wish I had your sensitivity, your knack for reading our daughters’ moods and knowing what they needed even before they asked. I’ve asked God to help me, but—”
A noise came from downstairs. Andrew paused, listening. Yes, it was the front door. Cassie was home. He got up and walked out to the landing and looked down. Cassie was standing in the foyer, stepping out of her high heels, the overhead lamplight turning her tousled mane of hair to spun gold.
He tied the sash of his robe and padded downstairs in his leather slippers. Cassie looked up and smiled as he approached.
“Hi, Daddy. What are you doing up at this hour?”
“Waiting for you,” he confessed.
“Daddy, I’m twenty-six years old. You don’t have to wait up for me anymore.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I know. Can’t help myself.”
Picking up her shoes, Cassie walked in her stockinged feet to the living room and sank down on the overstuffed sofa.
“Tired?” he asked, following a step behind.
She nodded.
“Have fun?”
Another nod, and the hint of a playful smile.
“So Gilbert what’s-his-name wasn’t so bad after all?”
Cassie chuckled. “Oh, he was just what I expected, but nice enough in a cerebral sort of way. If you happen to like walking textbooks.”
Andrew sat down in the recliner across from his daughter. “So if your date was nothing to write home about, why the mysterious little smile?”
Cassie’s face flushed crimson. “Oh, Daddy, you’re not supposed to notice that smile.”
“Really? Maybe I’m getting better at this parenting thing than I thought. So tell me, or my imagination will run wild, and we don’t want that, do we?”
“Okay, but it’s nothing really.” Cassie pulled the pins from her French twist and gracefully swept her fingertips through her cascading curls. “I met a couple of interesting people tonight, that’s all.”
“Of the masculine persuasion, I trust?”
“A man and a woman.”
“Married?”
“Mother and son. What is this, Daddy, twenty questions?”
“Just want to know what has put that new light in your eyes.”
She lowered her long lashes. “Daddy, really, there’s nothing to it. I just met the man who performed tonight. A very talented tenor.”
“Single?”
“I assume so. I got the impression he lives at home with his mother.”
Andrew’s thick brows arched. “His mother? Not a mama’s boy, I hope.”
“Oh, Daddy, you wouldn’t say that if you saw him.” Cassie rushed on before her father could interrupt again. “I met his mother quite by accident. At the reception. We got to talking and, Daddy, she’s an absolutely fascinating woman…”
Andrew sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Okay, I’ve got it, muffin. She’s my age and single and coming to dinner tomorrow night. Am I right so far?”
“Not coming to dinner, Daddy. There’s the cantata. But I did suggest getting a bite to eat afterward.”
“And this time we’ll make it a threesome instead of a double date. The tenor’s mother and Lydia Diddlehopper…” he said dryly.
“Dibbles.”
“And Emma Sawhorse, of course.”
“Sorenson! Really, Daddy, you think you’re so clever.”
Andrew sat forward and eyed his daughter intently. “I’m just trying to make a point, Cass. No matchmaking. You hear me?”
She examined one long polished fingernail. “Of course, I hear you, Daddy. I’m not matchmaking. You’re just being your usual paranoid self. Besides, what makes you think I’m trying to pair you up with Antonio’s mother?”
“Who’s Antonio?”
“The tenor. Antonio Pagliarulo.”
Andrew grinned. “I like the way you say his name.”
Cassie pointed one red lacquered fingernail at her father. “Now who’s matchmaking?”
Andrew raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Just making a small observation!”
“All Italian names roll off the tongue like that. It’s one of the romance languages, after all.”
“Romance? Is there the possibility we’re speaking of more than languages here?”
Cassie crossed her arms resolutely. “Not a chance, Daddy. Mr. Pagliarulo is a snob, a recluse, a loner. Everyone says so.”
“And that was your impression of him?”
Cassie chose her words carefully. “We met only for a few moments. He seemed nice enough.”
“Well, unless you plan to see him again, I suppose you’ll never know what he’s really like.”
“Oh, I’m going to see him again,” Cassie said quickly.
Andrew shook his head, puzzled. “But you said—”
“I didn’t invite Antonio and his mother over for dinner, but I did invite them to the cantata. They agreed to come.”
Andrew grinned knowingly. “I see. And you’re hoping I’ll hit it off with…with…”
“Juliana.”
“Juliana?”
“Juliana Pagliarulo. She’s beautiful, Daddy. And so full of life and spirit. I know you’ll like her.”
Andrew got up and crossed over to the sofa and planted a kiss on the top of his daughter’s head. “Maybe we’d better get some sleep, baby. It sounds like tomorrow will be quite a day.”
Cassie caught her father’s hand. “Oh, and Daddy, one more thing.”
He paused. “I hate to ask.”
In a small voice Cassie said, “I invited Antonio and Juliana to join us for dinner after the program. Maybe that little Italian restaurant near the church?”
Andrew sighed. “All right, Cass. On one condition.”
“Of course. What is it, Daddy?”
“No matchmaking!”
Just a hint of mischief played in Cassie’s smile. “I’ll promise if you promise.”
“Promise,” said Andrew. But as he climbed the stairs to his room, he was already imagining his beloved daughter looking exquisite in a white bridal gown of satin and lace. She would be standing at the altar on the arm of a handsome Italian tenor, as Andrew, the proud papa, pronounced them husband and wife.
Yes, indeed, mused Andrew, tomorrow promised to be a fascinating day!
But on Sunday afternoon Andrew began to suspect that perhaps Cassie shouldn’t have invited her two guests, for never had he seen his daughter so agitated before a performance. Three times she checked to make sure the sound system was operating properly. At rehearsal she fretted over how the choir sounded, and whether the program was too long, and whether the church auditorium was too warm.
Finally, a half hour before the cantata, Andrew stopped his daughter backstage and gripped both her hands in his. “Why are you so nervous, Cass? Where is this coming from?”
She shook her head miserably. “I don’t know, Daddy. I just can’t seem to get it together tonight.”
“Maybe because you’re trying to make this something it’s not. You’re performing in a nice little church cantata, honey, not Carnegie Hall. I’m sure your Italian tenor will understand that.”
“He’s not my Italian tenor,” she snapped.
Andrew smiled tolerantly. “All right. The point is you’re not in competition with him.”
“I don’t even think I can play.” She held up trembling hands. “Look at me, Daddy.”
“I’m looking, sweetheart. You’re beautiful and talented and you’re going to be fine. Just relax and go out there and enjoy yourself.”
“Relax? How can I, with Antonio Pagliarulo in the audience?”
“Honey, you’re forgetting something. You’re not playing just for Antonio. You’re performing for the Lord.”
A tear glistened in the corner of Cassie’s clear blue eyes. “I know, Daddy. It’s just…why does everything always have to be a competition with me? Why do I feel I always have to be the best?”
“Maybe because you’re my oldest daughter and you feel you have to be an example for everyone else. But you don’t, sweetheart. Just be yourself.”
Cassie touched his cheek. “You’re so wise. I love you, Daddy.”
Andrew slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Cass, let’s ask God to give us a great evening, okay? Then you go out there and play your heart out.”
They prayed briefly, then exchanged a quick hug. “I wonder if they’re here yet?” She peered out through the curtain at the audience, then looked back at her father. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll just do my best and leave the rest with the Lord.”
“That’s the spirit, honey. And I’ll be applauding you all the way.”
To Andrew’s relief the cantata went without a hitch. The choir sang with spirit and vitality, and Cassie’s piano solos were the best he’d ever heard. If anything, her performance exhibited a new gusto and passion. He felt a thrill of pride as he watched her deft fingers scaling the keys, filling the auditorium with the triumphant strains of a Mozart concerto. She accompanied the choir in several selections she had adapted from Beethoven’s Choral and Pastoral symphonies, then concluded the program with a moving Beethoven sonata.
As the audience broke into resounding applause, Andrew clapped the loudest, his eyes misting as he reflected silently, Oh, my dear Mandy, if only you could have seen our daughter performing this evening. You would be so proud, so very proud!
After the cantata, Andrew greeted his parishioners in the vestibule, nodding with fatherly pride as they complimented the performance. “Wonderful program…such talent…like a choir of angels…such glorious music gives us a little taste of heaven.”
“Indeed it does…yes, amen,” Andrew was saying when he spotted Cassie coming toward him with a handsome man on one arm and a very attractive woman on the other.
Cassie was beaming. “Daddy, this is Antonio Pagliarulo and his mother, Juliana Pagliarulo. Antonio and Juliana, this is my father, Reverend Andrew Rowlands.”
Andrew couldn’t take his eyes off Juliana. She was everything Cassie had described…and so much more. Exotic. Poised. Glamorous. Regal. Stunning. Her dark eyes flashed with vibrance and warmth, her flawless, bronze skin glowed, her black-velvet tresses shone. She offered her hand and he clasped it in both of his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Paglia—”
“Juliana, please.”
“Of course. Juliana.” The name seemed to dance on his lips.
“The pleasure is ours, Reverend. My son and I enjoyed the program very much.”
“Call me Andrew. Reverend sounds so…stodgy.”
“Andrew. A fine name.” Juliana’s smile enveloped him in its warmth. “And your daughter…she is so talented.”
Andrew realized suddenly, to his embarrassment, that he had neglected Antonio, who stood waiting to shake his hand. Andrew turned and gripped the young man’s hand perhaps a bit too hard. “Mr. Pagliarulo, my daughter tells me you are a very gifted man yourself.”
He returned the firm handshake. “Thank you, sir. Your daughter is very generous in her praise. And, may I say, she is a marvelous pianist.”
Andrew chuckled heartily. “Sounds like we have a mutual admiration society going on here, if you ask me.”
Cassie clasped her father’s arm. “Daddy, I told Antonio we’ll be having dinner at the Palazzo Ristorante on La Jolla Boulevard.”
“Yes, I think you’ll like it. The food’s great,” Andrew told Antonio. “It’s about six blocks from here. Would you like to ride over with us?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Antonio. “I have my car.”
“You could follow us,” suggested Cassie.
“No, I know the restaurant. It’s one of my favorites.”
Cassie smiled. “I thought it might be.”
Andrew turned confidentially to his daughter. “Are your sisters joining us?”
“No, they both said they have previous commitments.”
“I’ll bet,” he said under his breath. He looked back at Antonio and Juliana. “Are we ready to go?”
During the brief drive to the restaurant, Andrew noticed a smile playing on his daughter’s lips. He hated succumbing to his suspicious nature, but he couldn’t help wondering if Cassie was anticipating a delightful evening with the handsome Antonio Pagliarulo, or was she conniving ways of pairing off her father with the lovely Juliana? Guess we’ll just have to wait and see who wins at this matchmaking game, he mused silently.
Palazzo was a quaint, dimly lit café with lots of greenery surrounding cozy tables with red-checkered tablecloths. A jug with a flickering candle and a slim vase with a single red rose graced each table. The walls boasted a series of bright, impressionistic paintings of Venice and Naples. Tantalizing aromas of garlic, olive oil and oregano assailed Andrew’s senses as the hostess led them to a table in a private corner. His mouth watered as he caught glimpses of plates piled high with steamy baked manicotti and fettuccini smothered in creamy alfredo sauce. To his surprise he was hungrier than he had felt in days.
“What’s good tonight?” he asked the waitress, a young woman with a pretty face and black hair piled on her head in an odd little twist.
“The linguini alla portafino is good if you like shrimp and clams in a rich cream sauce,” she said in a high, singsong voice as she placed a basket of garlic bread on the table. “And everyone likes the veal parmigiana. But my favorite is the tortellini calabrese.”
“And what is that exactly?” Cassie asked, looking up from her menu.
“Meat tortellini and sausage in marinara sauce topped with mozzarella cheese. It’s awesome.”
Cassie nodded. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”
Juliana handed the waitress her menu. “I’ll just have an antipasto salad, please.”
“I’ll have the linguini alla portafino,” said Antonio.
“I’ll try the tortellini,” Andrew said. “And bring us an appetizer, okay? Some of those sauteed mushrooms and fried calamari. Might as well do this thing up right.” He looked over at Cassie and grinned. “Looks like I should have brought our bibs for a feast like this, right, muffin?”
Cassie’s face reddened. “Oh, Daddy, really!”
“Bibs?” echoed Juliana.
Andrew grinned. “We have these big, wonderful bibs we use at home on spaghetti nights. I’m as klutzy as they come, but those bibs work wonders.”
“Daddy, Juliana doesn’t want to hear about our bibs,” Cassie admonished.
“Oh, but I do. What a clever idea.”
Andrew chuckled. “You’ll have to come over for spaghetti sometime and try them out.” The words were out before he realized what he had said.
Juliana met his gaze for a long moment, her dark eyes flashing with merriment. “I’d love to, Andrew,” she said softly, her beguiling Mona Lisa smile curling the corners of her lips. Andrew couldn’t pull his eyes away from that smile, couldn’t stop the sudden roller-coaster tickle in his stomach. Maybe he was coming down with something, the way his heart was racing and his face was feeling flushed. Had to be a fever coming on. The flu maybe. You might know. He’d probably be sick in bed on his day off tomorrow.
Or maybe it wasn’t the flu at all. Maybe he was having an allergic reaction to…to Juliana!
He was more than a little relieved when the waitress brought their food. As he bit into a crusty slice of garlic bread, he resolved that he would have to watch his step around this woman. She had a way of making him feel like a bumbling, tongue-tied teenager again. Why did she have to look at him that way, as if she could see through to his heart and read his very thoughts?
“Andrew,” she said in her light, lyrical voice. “Andrew?”
He cleared his throat and stared at her. “Yes?”
“You were staring. I thought you were about to say something.”
His composure shattered, he groped for a suitable answer. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Juliana. I was about to say—”
“You were going to ask her about her life, weren’t you, Daddy?” prompted Cassie.
“Her life? Yes, of course.”
“Ask her about her music,” Antonio said. “Mama is quite an accomplished performer in her own right.”
Andrew gave Juliana an appraising glance. “Is that so? Do you sing?”
Juliana gazed down at her plate. “From time to time.”
Antonio reached over and squeezed his mother’s hand. “Mama is too modest. She has performed in concerts around the world.”
“When I was young,” Juliana protested. “Rarely do I sing anymore.”
“Why not?” prodded Andrew. “Cassie and I would love to hear you sing sometime.”
“And I would love to hear you deliver a sermon, Andrew.”
“Oh, he’s good at delivering sermons,” Cassie teased.
Juliana laughed lightly. “I mean, from the pulpit. I imagine you are a very eloquent man.”
“Eloquent? I doubt that. But I do try to help folks catch a glimpse of what God has for them in His Word.”
“Then I will come hear you some Sunday morning. Unless there’s a better time.”
“Actually, our church is joining with several others for a city-wide crusade in November. I’ll be preaching every evening during the week…presenting some of my favorite messages.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps Antonio and I will come hear you.”
An idea struck. “You could do better than that. You could come sing for us.”
“Me? Sing for you?” A radiant glow suffused Juliana’s face. The blush of modesty had never looked so lovely. “Oh, Andrew! I couldn’t! I do not sing for large crowds anymore.”
He retreated, feeling a discomfiting warmth around his collar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or embarrass you. Sometimes I blurt things out without thinking.”
Juliana placed her slim hand over his. “Do not apologize. I am flattered. And touched by your offer. But I am not the one you should be asking. Antonio is the one who should sing for your crusade.”
Andrew broke into a grin. “Maybe you’re right, Juliana.” He gazed across the table at Antonio. “How about it? Would you consider singing for our city-wide crusade?”
Antonio looked over at Cassie, as if to gauge her reaction.
Cassie beamed. “Oh, Antonio, please! We would be honored to have you sing at the crusade!”
“I’ll check my calendar, and let you know. But I think we can work something out.”
Andrew nodded, pleased. “And I’ll submit your name to the committee. It’s just a formality. I’m sure they’ll approve.”
Antonio cast another searching glance at Cassie and said with a hint of merriment, “I’ll sing, Cassandra, on one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked with a note of caution.
“That you accompany me on the piano.”
Cassie sank back in her seat. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
Antonio squeezed her hand. “Of course you can. We will do a marvelous duet together. Everyone will be enchanted.”
Andrew’s grin deepened. He broke into silent applause. “Wonderful! Splendid! I’ll arrange everything. The two of you will make beautiful music together!”
“Daddy!” cried Cassie in the scolding, horrified tone she reserved for her father’s worst blunders.
“It’s just a figure of speech, muffin,” he said in his most conciliatory voice. But privately, seeing the two of them together—his darling daughter and her handsome tenor—he had a feeling this was the beginning of something more than a musical duet. God willing, it was the blossoming of a rare and beautiful relationship.
Chapter Five
O n a balmy Friday evening two weeks after the cantata Cassie pulled into the parking lot at her father’s church. She was to meet Antonio at seven to rehearse their numbers for the upcoming city-wide crusade, but she was tempted to turn around and drive home. It was crazy. Her stomach was in knots and her emotions on edge, jumbled. She was as nervous as a cat on a high tension wire. She yearned to see Antonio again and yet dreaded facing him, fearful he might expect more of her than she could deliver.
That was it, of course. How could she play the piano for Antonio when she felt so jittery she wasn’t even sure her fingers would strike the correct keys? How had she allowed her father to talk her into accompanying Antonio at the crusade?
Actually, it was Antonio who had insisted she accompany him. Was he doing it to torture her, to make her look bad, to show her up as a mediocre musician? Surely not, and yet that’s exactly how she felt. He could have chosen the most accomplished pianist in Southern California…but he had asked Cassie. Why hadn’t she just said no?
It still wasn’t too late to back out. She could simply make some excuse and leave. Surely it wouldn’t be hard for Antonio to find another pianist….
But the moment Cassie entered the sanctuary and saw Antonio standing beside the grand piano as he sorted through some sheet music, her heart did a double flip, and she knew she was glad she had come. No matter how terrified she felt at the prospect of accompanying him at the crusade, it was worth the discomfort just to be in his presence again. Surely he was the most handsome man she had ever seen, with that distinctive Roman nose and square jaw and high forehead. And when he looked up at her and smiled, those dark, brooding eyes flecked with gold and amber held her spellbound. Did he like what he saw? She was wearing a pale-blue pantsuit and stacked heels. Was she overdressed? Underdressed? How did one dress for an occasion like this? It was more of a nonoccasion, not a date certainly. Not a date. Then why did she care so much how she looked and what he thought of her?
“Hello, Cassandra.” His gentle voice felt almost like an embrace.
Cassie was breathless. “Hello, Antonio. I hope I’m not late.”
His eyes crinkled, flashing warmth and amusement. “Not at all. I must have been early.” As she approached he stepped forward and gave her a brief embrace, the kind one gives a casual friend. But his closeness—his smooth cheek against hers, the lime fragrance of his aftershave—was enough to send Cassie’s senses reeling.
In his easy, graceful stride he walked back over to the piano and arranged the sheet music on the stand. “I guess we should get started. Are you ready?”
She sat down on the piano bench and smiled up at him. Could he hear her pounding heart? Sense her nervousness? “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
For all of her anxieties and trepidation, the evening went like clockwork. Like magic. As Antonio sang and she played, something extraordinary happened. They performed as one, in perfect synchronicity, as if they had spent their entire lives performing together. Each seemed to know instinctively what the other was about to do; even their musical interpretations matched.
Cassie found herself feeling pleased, exultant, even euphoric. She sensed a new excitement and passion in her playing, a fresh burst of confidence. It was as if Antonio had unwittingly freed some deep creative impulse within her.
After their rehearsal, as Antonio walked Cassie to her car, he said with a hint of levity, “My dear lady, was it my imagination, or did we sound sensational together?”
She hesitated, struggling for words. “You…you sounded superb, I know that much.”
“But there was something magical, electric going on here tonight,” he persisted. “Didn’t you feel it? It’s not always that way when I sing. Admit it, Cassandra. We were soaring.” He touched her arm gently. “Please, don’t tell me it was all one-sided. Am I wrong?”
“No, I felt it too. It was…extraordinary.”
He chuckled. “Now if we just sound as good to the rest of the world, we’ll be all set.”
He opened her door for her, then clasped her arm before she stepped inside. “Cassandra, wait. I have an idea. I’m too jazzed to just go home and call it a night. Would you like to go somewhere? Get something to eat?”
She was about to say she wasn’t hungry, but quickly canceled the remark and said instead, “Yes. I’d like that.”
“More Italian cuisine?”
“No, it’s too late for a big fancy meal. How about the little coffee shop around the corner? They’ve got great burgers.”
“Burgers it is. Why don’t you leave your car here and ride with me?”
She looked up and caught his infectious smile. “Okay, Antonio. Lead the way.”
He escorted her across the parking lot to a large luxury sedan, a deep burgundy color with a black leather interior. He opened her door and she slipped inside. “A beautiful car.”
“Not as beautiful as its passenger.” He lingered a moment, his eyes fastened on her, then went around to his side, got in, and they were off.
As he drove she cast several surreptitious glances at his finely chiseled profile. He was a gorgeous man, no doubt about it! Even in sport shirt and slacks he looked debonair. And yet he seemed completely unaware of his stunning good looks.
In the coffee shop, as they ordered burgers and fries, she realized he looked too cosmopolitan for a greasy spoon like this. She fidgeted with her water glass, the napkin, the silverware, silently chastising herself for not suggesting a more sophisticated restaurant.
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