A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five) by Diane Moody Page A

I
turned and wept on her shoulder.
    I’m so
blessed to have a mother who loves the Lord with all her heart. I only wish I
had half the faith she does.

Chapter 10
     
    Later—
    The
strangest thing happened this afternoon. The hospital visiting hours began at 2:00 p.m. Around 2:45 ,
someone knocked on the door to Gary ’s room. A man I’d never seen before opened
the door and asked if he and his mother could come in. Of course I said yes,
and when he stepped aside, I recognized her immediately ‌—‌ the woman Gary had
tried to rescue in the parking lot at the train station. Her face was filled
with such unmasked sorrow.
    “My
mother doesn’t speak English, but she has been most anxious to find out about ‍—‍ ” he paused, glancing over
at Gary then back at his mother ‍—‌ “to find out about the
man who saved her life. We have tried for days to find him. Only today would
the police tell us his name, and that he was here, brought to this hospital. My
mother has been ‌—‌ uh, most, uh ‌—‌ anxious
to know how Mr. Gary Reynolds is.” He nodded as if to assure himself he’d said
it right. I recognized his heavy accent as Italian.
    “Please
come in,” I said, extending my hand to her and then to her son. “I’m Lucille.”
    “Yes,
please. Nice to meet you. I am Marco Bertolucci, and this is my mother, Abelina
Bertolucci.”
    Mrs.
Bertolucci mumbled something to her son.
    “She
said she remembers you from that day. You are Mrs. Reynolds?”
    “No,
I’m not ‌—‌ I
mean, he’s not my ‌—‌ well, we’re engaged, but no one knows
about that yet. I’m his fiancée.”
    “Ah,”
he said with a hint of a smile that quickly faded. “I am sorry for your, uh,
for his injuries. Is he going to be . . . okay?”
    I
started to say something but couldn’t find my voice. I motioned for them to
join me closer to Gary ’s bed.
    “Oh ‍—‍ ” Marco held his index
finger to his lips and whispered, “He is sleeping. We do not wish to disturb
him. We will go ‍—‍ ”
    “It’s all
right,” I said. “I admit, I prefer to think that he’s just resting, but the
doctors tell us he’s actually in a coma.”
    Marco
translated for his mother. “Co-ma?” she asked, looking between us.
    “Coma,
yes. Think of it as a deep, deep sleep.”
    He
translated again, then his mother asked a question through her son. “She wishes
to know if he will wake up.”
    I
blinked away the tears stinging my eyes. “Yes, we hope so. Soon.”
    After
Marco translated, Mrs. Bertolucci lifted her gnarled hands toward me, cupping
my face in her palms. She uttered something barely over a whisper, her brows
arched in sympathy as she spoke.
    Marco continued.
“My mother wishes you to know that God will take care of this man, her hero,
who saved her that day. She knows this because God told her to make him her famous
Christmas Cannoli Siciliani. And God would not tell her to do so if Mr.
Reynolds were ‌—‌ uh,
if he was not able to, uh . . . eat.”
    I felt
my lips quivering as I tried to smile. “That’s so sweet, and I know Gary will love them.”
    Mrs.
Bertolucci reached into the large bag over Marco’s shoulder and lifted out a
silver tin with a red and white checked bow tied around it. She handed it to me
with such care, as though they were the crowned jewels instead of pastry.
    “Thank
you, Mrs. Bertolucci. This is ‍—‍ ”
    Another
exchange. “She wishes for you to call her Abelina.”
    “Abelina.
Thank you.”
    We
couldn’t communicate with words, but I hoped she could see the joy she’d given
me reflected in my face. “Abelina, I will look forward to sharing these with Gary . And when he wakes up, I want him to
meet you. Promise me you’ll come back.” I nodded toward Marco, anxious for him
to tell her.
    A
broad smile creased her face as she chuckled, mumbling again as she clutched my
hand.
    “My
mother says she would like that very much. Very much.”
    “As
would I. Marco,