Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino Read Free Book Online Page A

I’ve avoided her calls for the past week. I barely slept last night thinking of Caterina. I still wonder what triggered my mother’s change of heart. It makes me uneasy, but I’m afraid to ask.
    Today, as we shop at Union Square, my mother has slight dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if she spent a sleepless night, as well. If so, only someone who knows her well would notice. She looks as stylish as ever in pressed jeans and a silky turquoise blouse. Her black hair is either in a tidy bun, or like today, a sleek ponytail. Her dark eyelashes seem even blacker with the slash of her signature red lipstick. She taught me la bella figura —­the Italian philosophy to present your best self always—­but I’ve always managed to bungle it. She’s always had men flocking to her, but never remarried after my dad died. It was only after we kids moved out that she began dating another widower she’s known since childhood.
    Three hours of shopping later, I have a massive headache from trying on a variety of “floor-­length gowns” in silver, gold, and black. I kept getting sidetracked by the frothy chiffon sundresses in pretty oranges, turquoises, and pinks that would go great with my new strappy stiletto sandals. Finally, I settle on a black velvet halter dress. It’s modest in front but has a plunging back side and is formfitting without being clingy or revealing. I fork over a month’s salary at my mother’s encouragement.
    â€œYou look like an angel in that dress,” my mother says over lunch at Scala’s Bistro.
    â€œSince when do angels wear black?”
    â€œYou know what I mean,” she says in exasperation. “Donovan will drop to one knee for sure when he sees you wearing it.”
    I close my eyes and count to ten, so I don’t explode. “Mama, please! Can you get off the marriage kick,” I say, holding my hand up to my throbbing head and waving away the waiter who is trying to refill my wine. “Plus, he’s not going to see me in this anyway.”
    â€œWhat? I don’t understand.” My mother’s hand freezes, with a forkful of expertly twirled linguine-­and-­clam pasta halfway to her mouth.
    â€œThe mayor’s dinner is for reporters, not cops. Donovan’s not invited. Besides, he’s up at his sister’s house in Sacramento this weekend for his nephew’s christening.”
    â€œHe didn’t invite you?” Her brow furrows. “Are you two having problems?”
    â€œMama, he did invite me, but I have to attend this dinner, so I couldn’t go.” A blatant lie, which fills me with guilt.
    I ignore her question about us having problems. I don’t know if we are or not. I do know I haven’t invited him to stay the night at my apartment since I caught him swooping in to rescue his old girlfriend from a murder rap. I look away, pushing around my shrimp risotto so it looks like I ate more than I did. I’m not hungry. For a girl with an appetite like mine, that’s saying something.
    â€œI pray every day that someday you realize work is not as important as love,” my mother says. “When you are on your deathbed, are you going to remember some horrible story you covered or the love you had with someone else?” She raises one eyebrow. I keep my face deadpan. “You have to be careful you don’t lose this one because you put your job first.”
    â€œDonovan’s different,” I say, but flash back to the string of boyfriends who called it quits because of the demands of my job, including the one who did so on the morning of our wedding. Or rather, I broke it off but only because he told me he didn’t want his wife to be a reporter.
    â€œI hope so. He’s a good man,” she says, dabbing her lips with the big linen napkin. She waits until she has my full attention before she says what she does next. “And Ella, you are