Cassandra's Song. Carole Gift Page

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?”

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