Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

and smacked it, producing a satisfying crack—“this drivel! This bull! This poor excuse for journalism! That’s what’s wrong.”

He perused the headline, placed a hand under my elbow and guided me to a chair. “Sit here for a minute. I’ll be right back.” He quickly returned with a cup of tea. “Tell me,” he said.

“Wukowski’s been working night and day to solve these awful crimes. Agonizing over each victim. Losing sleep.” I raised the mug to my lips.

“Ah! I see. This stronzino reporter has insulted your sweetheart.”

Papa never ever swore in front of ladies, so calling someone a ‘little asshole’ was a big deal. It somehow warmed my heart to know that he would defend Wukowski’s honor that way.

He patted my hand. “So, Angelina, take some advice from your papa. Problems come and they go. The opinions of the world are like waves on Lake Michigan’s shoreline.” He tapped the paper that lay on the table. “‘You can do nothing about what this person writes. But consider. Le bugie hanno le gambe corte. Lies have short legs. So wait, Angie. The truth will be revealed.”

Papa’s soothing, steady tone did more to settle me than his words. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, centering myself. “I’ve been reacting like a mama bear, but Wukowski is no cub. Thank you, Papa.” I rose and hugged him.

He resumed the recliner and nodded at the table. “Maybe you should leave the paper there.”

I returned to the kitchen, where Aunt Terry gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing. As she chopped ingredients for a salad, I removed the Italian loaf from its wrapper and began to prepare garlic bread. The bread came from Sciortino’s bakery and was delizioso, its outside crusty and its inside perfect to absorb the olive oil, butter, garlic and spices. Mmm. My mouth watered, just thinking about it.

My granddaughter bounded into the kitchen ahead of her parents, my daughter Emma and her husband John. I hunkered down to receive a hug from my namesake, nine-year old Angela, a ladylike bookworm with a good heart and an impish sense of humor. “Nonna, can I help?” she asked.

“Of course,” I told her. “But first, go hug your bisnonno. He’s in the den. And then wash your hands and come back. We’ll find an apron and you and I will make garlic bread.”

I shared hugs with Emma and John. He grabbed a cup of coffee and settled in the living room to watch whatever football game was on. The Packers weren’t scheduled to start until three.

Emma glanced at the clock and uncorked the wine as the second wave came through the back door. David, my tall handsome son, and his wife Elaine preceded their twin eleven-year old boys, in an attempt to hold them back from exploding into the room. Making an end run around each parent, Patrick and Donald barreled over and hugged me. I noticed that their heads were now almost at my armpit. Too soon, they would be taller than I was. I hugged them hard, while they still wanted my hugs.

A jumbled chorus of Nonnas and requests and observations came to a halt, not because their parents shushed them, but because Angela entered the room with a stern, “Boys, stop talking over each other. It’s rude.” With a giggle, she took their hands and tugged. “Come see what Bisnonno has in the den!”

David looked at Aunt Terry. “What’s he bought now?”

She shrugged. “Some sort of superpower twist-and-turn action figures. He watches Nickelodeon and the Disney channels to see what’s popular.” She smiled at Emma. “Of course, for Angela, he has a new book. The first of the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House books.”

“Oh, I loved those as a child,” I said.

“I think that’s why he bought it,” Aunt Terry replied. “He remembered your joy.”

I welled up a bit, but David came over and hugged me hello, so I recovered while my face was buried in his chest. Being short had some advantages, but not many.

Dinner proceeded as usual, with good food and good company and much love. While the men handled cleanup, I played some hotly fought games of Sorry! with the children. Then we all screamed ourselves hoarse, watching the Packers beat the Panthers and advance to the NFC playoff game. All was well with the world, my soul once again re-created, surrounded by my family at Papa’s table.

Chapter 16

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on. — Carl Sandburg

Before heading for home, I decided to buy a few presents for the new Mulcahey babies at a local east-side boutique. Nine years had passed since Angela’s birth and my last real shopping trip for newborns. So much had changed! I delighted in the cheeky humor of the infant clothes. Spider would get a chuckle out of the onesies adorned with computers. Magda would love the handmade caps to protect little ears from the Wisconsin cold. Yellow Submarine winter jammies also went into my basket, along with sleepers embroidered with ‘Drinking Buddies.’ For Magda, I chose a soft pashmina throw that would warm her feet during nighttime feedings. And for Spider, an irreverent but hilarious book titled Go the F* to Sleep.

Joey puzzled me for several minutes. Of course, I could buy him a shirt with “I’m the Big Brother” emblazoned on it. But I wanted something that would show I recognized him as a person and not just the twins’ older sibling. A Batman night light gleamed from a display across the room and I recalled Joey’s Legos table, with its miniature Caped Crusader. Perfect! The boutique enclosed my gifts in tissue paper and white boxes. I selected wrapping paper, paid, and left for home and a bout with tape and ribbons.

As I fashioned a black ribbon into a likeness of the Caped Crusader, the staccato notes of “Cabaret” sounded from my cellphone. “Bobbie,” I breathed, “it’s three o’clock. I got engrossed in shopping and wrapping for the Mulcaheys and didn’t check