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

Sisters, is up to any challenge she wants to take on.” My voice was firm, assured.

“That’s right,” Emma added. “If you want him, you can have him, Aunt Terry. But only if you want him. If you don’t, then just toss him out.” She snapped her fingers as she waved her free arm to the side.

We broke up, laughing. But, I thought, it’s a lot like me and Kevin. I can have him if I want him. But do I?

As the evening wound down, we all kissed and hugged good-night, and David whispered in my ear, “Nice guy, Mom. Is he a keeper?”

“Not sure,” I whispered back, and he gave me a little squeeze.

“Don’t wait too long to decide,” he advised. “I want to see you happy.”

When we stopped in front of my building, Kevin put his arms around me and drew me into a long, long kiss. “Can a guy get a nightcap?” he asked.

I knew he wasn’t just asking for a drink and I’d never been one to take sex lightly. I hesitated, unsure whether I really trusted him, whether this was really the right guy, the right time, the right circumstances. He noticed. He trailed a finger along my jawline. “Call me when you decide I’m not one of the bad guys, Angie.” The words were soft, his eyes looked hurt.

A big lump in my throat prevented me from speaking. I just nodded, pressed a kiss on his cheek, and left the car. He waited until I was inside the lobby before driving away.

In the bedroom, I carefully hung up my dress and put my shoes and bag on the closet shelf. In the bathroom, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and changed into cotton PJs. In bed, alone, I cursed my inability to trust.

Chapter 10

A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.

—Victoria Secunda

I slept fitfully, wrestling with the sheets and my damnable scruples. Hugging a pillow was no substitute for wrapping my arms around a warm, sexy body. At six o’clock, I gave up the struggle to escape into sleep and went for my morning run.

The streets were quiet—no bladers, few joggers or runners. The cars that passed me all seemed to consist of well-dressed families on their way to church, evoking memories of little Angie, scrubbed, neatly dressed and wearing her best shoes, clutching her aunt’s hand as they went to Mass. Old St. Mary’s, a church built by Italian immigrants, smelled of incense, votive candles and the furniture polish that the nuns used to clean the wooden pews. The flickering banks of candles cast shadows on the statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph. The faces of the figures seemed to watch the child and it both frightened and thrilled her to think that all the saints of heaven were there to call upon in time of need.

As I pounded the pavement along the lake front, I pondered my lost faith. Certainly, I still believed in God and in the presence of spirit. What I’d lost was belief in religion, in an organized body that could interpret the Truth and dictate my conscience. I’d “fallen away,” as Aunt Terry put it. In reality, I’d run away, as soon as I realized that the old men in Rome who fronted for God had no concept of the lives of ordinary men and women, especially women. I was still waiting to see if there was something to run to, rather than just from. The morning fog that shrouded the lake seemed a fitting metaphor for the gray cloud that seemed to hover over my heart and mind.

Kevin. Cute, funny, sexy Kevin. What was I going to do about Kevin? The rhythm of my feet faltered slightly as I stepped aside to avoid a pothole in the running path. My life was going along rather smoothly just now—great home, a job I enjoyed, family and friends whom I could depend on for love and support. Did I need the complication that a lover would bring to my well-ordered existence? I’d already done the background work (credit, employment, criminal and civil court checks, even a limited health history that bordered on the illegal) on Kevin and found no reasons to reject him. Now I needed to decide. He wouldn’t hang around forever, waiting for Angelina Bonaparte to make up her mind. Inaction was one way of letting him go, but I told myself that I preferred to make an outright choice. So what’s it going to be, Angie?

My head was running the Billy Joel song Honesty. Do you really think everyone is untrue? I challenged myself. Or are you just finding what you’re looking for? Are you setting yourself up for betrayal? Are you just flat-out scared? The little Angie chided me—scaredy cat, scaredy cat.

Basta! Enough! I walked the last block home, took a shower, and dressed in black silk slacks and a white cotton tank top. Small gold earrings lent a slightly formal look to the outfit. I carried the matching black silk jacket, suitable for professional interviews. It might be Sunday, but the investigation needed to move forward.

The counter man at the Starbucks on Farwell looked me up and down. “Whoa, Angie, looking good.”

“Thanks, Mo.” I smiled. He was a senior citizen who worked part-time to supplement his Social Security income. Mo generally only saw me on Sundays, dressed in sweats. “I have some interviews today, hence the clothes,” I explained.

“Hence. I like that. No one says ‘hence’ anymore. It’s like ‘hark.’ A forgotten word.”

“Must be the librarian in me, peeking out from behind the private eye.”

“Nice image. How many more of you are there?”

“Way too many.”

“I hear ya. So, what’ll it be? Latte and a scone?”

“Exactly right, Mo. I must be getting predictable.” I waited as he heated and frothed