"You have no idea what I've been going through here." Aurelia wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

"And you have no idea how you hurt me with your control!" Capri pipes up.

"Stop it. Both of you." Aurelia and Capri look at me. "I mean it." I turn to Capri. "I'm not coming over here to defend you anymore. I'm sorry things got hairy when you decided to assert yourself, but you should have prepared your mother before you packed your bags."

"I needed-"

"You need to grow up!"

"Don't speak to her in that tone!" Aurelia barks.

"And you need to learn to let go." I steady myself on the kitchen table. Aurelia puts her hand over her heart. "I am sick of being in the middle." I look at Aurelia. "I am not your son." I turn to Capri. "Or your future husband. I am your lifelong friend. I love you both very much. But I'm too old to take your crap anymore. So, let's get it straight. Aurelia, your daughter doesn't want me. We have no sparks. There have never been any sparks. In fact, we are two sopping wet logs on a Girl Scout camping trip. Do you understand?"

"I do now," she says quietly.

"If you're smart, you'll help Capri pack and you'll give her some of the lovely modern pieces from Sy's old den that are stored in the attic. West Long Branch is no place for French anything. Now I must go. I just got off a plane, and my head feels like it's going to snap off, roll onto the curb, and burst into flames."

As I climb into my car, I realize that Aurelia is a decent lady, but I am seeing a side of her that I don't like. She never gives without strings, even though she's the first person to say she does. Capri put her needs after her mother's because she never had much of a choice. The family ties that bind can choke you. It's a lesson I would do well to learn from her.

I arrive home like a wrung-out dish rag and find a letter from Gian Angelo Ruttolo, to whom I wrote before zipping off to London with Eydie. He's coming to New York in late July and has agreed to take a day trip down to OLOF to see the church.

The English, with their rich colonial history, poached wonderful decorating ideas from around the world. My brief trip gave me more inspiration than I know what to do with. England is an endless resource for decorators. I admired the scrumptious silks, handcrafted wool rugs, and metal accents of India. The Far Eastern influences, like the use of fibers in rattan, straw, and hemp amid the faded chintz, really dazzle me. They say the Brits like bold color because it rains so much there, but I believe they simply took the most artful elements of every place they colonized and incorporated them into their own national palette.

Perhaps it betrays my Roman Catholic roots, but I love the Protestant cathedrals. They are simple, spare, and full of light. A medieval tapestry behind an altar might be the only adornment. When just one object of art is displayed, it has a deep impact. I flipped over the black-and-white marble harlequin-patterned floor at Westminster Cathedral, so I plan to copy it in the church foyer. It reminded me of a chessboard, and how that exquisite game is much like salvation-do a little good, move forward; sin, go back; ignore the needs of others, stay in the same square.

The doorbell rings, and I hear the door open with a key. "B, it's me, Toot. Don't shoot!"

"I'm in the kitchen," I call out.

Toot appears in the doorway carrying a red-and-white enamel pot balanced on a Tupperware cake saver. "Soup," she says. "I never heard of anyone going on an international airplane who didn't get a cold."

"It's four hundred degrees outside. I may fry to death, but I'm not getting a cold. Trust me."

"Now, B," she says sternly. "It'll flush out the European impunities."

"Might you mean impurities?" I snap.

She ignores the comment. "How was your trip?"

"Too fast. I could've used a month over there."

Toot gets out a place mat, a napkin, a bowl, and a spoon. She ladles her world-class chicken soup into the bowl and indicates I should eat. I sit down as she takes a seat across from me. I put my napkin on my lap and taste the soup.

"Good?"

"Delish."

"I strain the chicken stock through cheesecloth. Takes the fat out."

"I have a feeling you didn't pop in just to tell me how you make broth."

Toot sighs. "Sal and I have gotten to third base. I'm not going too fast, am I?"

"Sounds like you're right on schedule. Although . . ."

"What?"

"When your man is over sixty, I think you should feel free to escalate the proceedings. After all, the clock is ticking."

"Good point. Do I look thinner?"

"Stand up."

Toot stands up straight and lifts her neck like a chicken about to lay an egg.

"You definitely do."

"I'm jogging my ass off." She sits back down. "Oh, B. Someday I hope you fall in love."

"Are you in love with Sal?"

"Not at all. But at least I've bought a ticket to the game. I'm not on the field yet, I'm in the parking lot, but who knows? It could happen. And soon. I'm so tired of being alone." She raps her fingers on the table.

"What's so terrible about it, really?" I get up and find a box of crackers in the cabinet.

"Oh, it's awful. Being alone is a state of waiting. In my life I was waiting for a man to come along, and then when he did, I was stuck in a marriage that died a little more each day. When we got divorced, I became a woman with everything behind her and nothing in front."

"That's not true at all. You have a very full life."

"As a person, yes. As a woman . . ." Toot turns both her thumbs down. "Let me tell you about being a desirable woman, because it's the shortest career on earth. By the time you figure men out, it's too late to use the knowledge. Look at me. Fifty-one years old and I'm regrouping. Who does this?"

"Don't look back."

"Well, B, you have to. Because I don't want to spend Act Two of my life making another mistake and then having to bounce back from it. What elasticity I have left, I want to savor, okay? I don't know how people like Liz Taylor do it. I haven't got the stamina to deal with the breakups. Lonnie nearly ruined me. And I'm not blaming him. It was me. I saw the signs and I was busy with the boys, so I ignored them."

"What signs?"

"Well, after a few years in a marriage, let's say around . . ."

"Year eight?" How could I forget? That was the year we found a size-five blue patent-leather pump in Lonnie's trunk. (Toot is a size nine.) It was the first in a series of clothing items recovered from his car. I never understood it-didn't these women notice a shoe missing? Or their underwear?

"That's when he went out on me for the first time. Lonnie always liked a good-looking girl. He'd look one up and down like a greased pole. And I stupidly took that as a compliment, thinking, 'Out of all those girls, he chose me.' I should have realized I was totally expandable."

"Expendable."

"Right. He needed variety. A couple of times I tried to spice things up, like I wore a blond wig and met him at the Steak and Shake, but someone saw me there and said, 'I didn't know you had cancer,' and it killed the mood entirely."

"That must've crushed you."

"You'll never know. But Sal, he's not like that. He looks at me like I'm a hot pie fresh out of the oven. He practically saturates-"

"Salivates," I correct her.

"And if I make him a dish of spaghetti-even schway schway, it takes me five minutes with a can of tuna-he is so grateful. Lonnie used to come home, look in the pot, and if he didn't like what was cooking, he'd take the keys and go right out to a restaurant-without us! I can't see Sal doing that."

"I'm happy for you, Toot."

"There's just one problem."

"What?"

"He wants . . . you know."

"What?"

"You know."

"No, I really don't."

"He wants a . . . particular thing." Toot puts both hands on the table and rubs the wood like she's hand-ironing a tablecloth.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's put it this way. Ma taught me if a man ever asked for that, he wasn't fit to eat on our china."

"Oh . . . that." Our mother had many rules. Thank goodness she spared me this one. "Toot, this is not an area I am comfortable discussing with you."

"I figured."

"Thank you." I take four saltines and crush them in my fist, then sprinkle them into my soup.

"So I went to Father Wiffnell. Not direct, I asked him in the confessional."

"You went to a priest? About that?"

"Why, naturally. What are we paying them for? I needed some guidance. Who the hell else can I ask when you're traipsing all over Europe?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe one of your girlfriends?"

"My crowd is very sedate sexually. In kindergarten, Sister Mary Purification told the girls in my class to take baths with our clothes on. I learned to be ashamed of my body the same year I learned the Palmer Perfect Method."

I cannot even pursue the logic of that, so I ask, "What did Father Wiffnell say?"

"He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, 'Do you love this man?' So, I answered him truthfully. I said, 'I'm not sure.' He said, 'Why don't you wait until you're sure?' "

"Good answer."

"I don't know. I miss when they used to say, 'Don't do it! Go say ten Hail Marys, and the next time you think a thought like this, think of the oozing stigmata of Saint Rose of Lima.' Now, anything goes. I brought pound cake. You want a piece?"

"Make it a double."

CHAPTER SIX.

The Bernini of Bay Ridge We locals accept the crowds of summer in our beachfront town without complaint. Main Street in OLOF is always busy during August. There's a portable Italian ice cart that draws the crowd in the heat. The vendor parks it on the church plaza, where folks buy their ice and then sit on the church steps and eat it-our version of Italy's La Passegiata. I wait inside the church until I absolutely need a cigarette. Everywhere I go, I'm bombarded with questions about renovating the church. I'm tired of explaining that I'm still in the research phase.

Christina waits in the sacristy at Our Lady of Fatima with her typed inventory of the church contents. I go outside and light a cigarette. Since this project began I've been smoking quite a lot, but I promise myself that as soon as the design is complete, I will quit. A good smoke is soothing, and for now I need it.

I see a town car from the city turning the corner onto our town square, and I wave. True to form, Eydie is right on time. The black town car pulls up to the curb, and Eydie jumps out of the backseat in her best ensemble yet: orange paisley stovepipe pants, pumpkin suede platform boots, a hot-pink blouse with flowing sleeves, and a wide-weave crocheted sleeveless bolero in orange, green, and white stripes. She is 1970.

"B!" She waves excitedly. The driver emerges from the front seat and joins Eydie at the back door of the car. It takes a moment, but Gian Angelo Ruttolo emerges with her help. He's small, around five feet two, and trim. He's dressed in black with a straw boater on his head, and when he turns his back to me, I see a long white braid down his back. I didn't think hippies came in senior-citizen packages. As I hurry to meet them, he is eyeing the church up and down. "Nice stonework," he murmurs before Eydie has even made the introductions.

"We're honored to have you here," I say as I shake his hand.

"Do you speak Italian?" he asks.

"Poco." I make the sign for "little" with my thumb and forefinger.

He grimaces and pushes me out of the way. He climbs the steps, holding the brass banister.

"What's his problem?" I whisper.

"He's a handful. No patience," Eydie whispers back.

We follow him into the church, where Christina greets him in Italian. He beams, kisses her on both cheeks, and caresses her hands warmly. Christina doesn't seem to mind, even though she is a couple of inches taller than he. I never thought I'd see someone more petite than Christina, but here he is.

"Cominceremmo?" Gian Angelo turns and looks at me without letting go of Christina.

"Vorrebbe che io le mostrassi la chiesa?" Christina asks him.

"Vorrei che mi mostrasse tutto il mondo," he says with a twinkle.

"Do you understand?" Eydie asks me.

I understand a come-on in any language. "He wants to show her the world," I whisper to Eydie. "Is he here to help me or to get laid?"

"Both." She smiles.

We take Gian Angelo through the church: up to the choir loft, over the catwalks, down the small staircase from the belfry, through the nave, to the side altars, back into the sacristy, the storerooms, the offices, and the hallway with access to the cemetery. He taps walls, looks under statues (for cash perhaps, or secret letters? Letters under statues have long been the postal service of choice for clandestine lovers), checks names and dates of construction, scratches any metal surface with his fingernail, and feels the marble for cracks and fissures. He spends several minutes assessing the Menecola fresco of the children of Fatima looking up at the Blessed Lady. Surprisingly, he doesn't seem to hate it. He seems very interested in the paint used and the technique of the artist. I feel like I'm on tour with an archaeologist instead of an architect.

Christina and Gian Angelo now have what appears to be a secret language. Eydie speaks Italian, but they aren't letting her in on their sotto voce sessions. I'm slightly irritated with Chris, but really, it isn't her fault. He is our guest, and she is only being polite. She turns to me and says, "Gian Angelo wants to give me his assessment in Italian, and then I will translate."

"Fine." I shrug and look at Eydie. We sit down in the front pew.