Back in the Habit (3 page)

“I—”

“Uh-huh. Thanks for the ride. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Safe behind her own apartment door, Giulia plopped a year's worth of
Cosmo
magazines on the coffee table. “I will learn to do this right if it kills me.”

Her conscience whispered that she was avoiding the real issue: her, back in habit, walking through the Motherhouse door on Sunday afternoon. A mere thirty-six hours from now.

“I am not thinking about that tonight. I will let it sink in and dissect it in the sunshine tomorrow.”

She flipped pages in the top magazine till she found that month's how-to: “The ‘Good Girl's' Guide to Flirting.” With a yellow highlighter in one hand, she settled in for an hour of study.

Three

“I'm waiting with my
camera ready,” Frank said from the other side of the office's bathroom door Saturday afternoon.

“Frank, I will call down on you every curse my grandmother taught me if you take my picture in this outfit.”

“Curse away. It's worth coming into work on a Saturday to see you in that outfit.”

The long, narrow office bathroom wasn't meant to double as a dressing room. Giulia zipped the black A-line dress and adjusted the wrist-length sleeves. The detachable white collar tucked in just as she remembered, a Velcro circle securing it at the back. The two-foot-long veil hung on the back of the door as though it hid a severed head. A narrow ray of sunlight touched it, and the black polyester swallowed like a living shadow.

She grimaced. “All right, that's morbid. Just put the thing on. You haven't forgotten how.”

“Giulia, who are you talking to?”

“The habit, Frank.” She listened a moment. “Don't laugh. This is your fault.”

“I'm not—” he cleared his throat—“laughing. How long does it take to put on two pieces of clothing?”

“Hold your horses.” She jammed the veil on her head, hands automatically tucking her brown curls under the narrow white outer band. “I shouldn't remember that trick so easily.”

She stood before the mirror over the sink, eyes closed while she adjusted the inner plastic headpiece at the top. A deep breath, and she opened her eyes.

“Oh, crap.” Sister Mary Regina Coelis stared back at her—a ghost laid to rest nearly a year and a half earlier.

Frank's voice came from right against the other side of the bathroom door. “Giulia? What's wrong?”

“Everything. Move. I'm coming out.” She turned away from the apparition in the mirror and opened the door.

Frank's phone clicked. “
Dia naofa
.”

Giulia tugged the veil farther down over her ears. “An outfit guaranteed to flatter no figure. It makes fat women look like tents and skinny ones like scarecrows. Thus its purpose: an instant turnoff to any man with a pulse.”

She rifled through the tissue paper in the delivery box. “Did Fabian remember to send a crucifix?”

Frank snapped another photo. “There's an envelope taped under the lid.”

Giulia ripped open the flap on its narrow end. A three-inch-high replica of the San Damiano crucifix fell into her hand. A plain gold wedding band was tangled in the stainless-steel chain.

“Fancy crucifix.” Frank's voice tickled her earlobe.

“It's the one that spoke to Saint Francis.” Giulia took refuge in ordinary, ignorant Frank. “Seriously, Francis, didn't you ever have to learn about your patron saint?”

He waved it away. “For confirmation, but who remembers that? Put it on so I can get the whole effect.”

She worked the chain free of the wedding band and eased it over the veil. As it settled under the collar, the crucifix resting over her camouflaged cleavage, footsteps slapped down the hall.

The door opened so fast it bounced off the printer table.

“Am I too late? Traffic on Saturday is nutso. Oh—oh wow, Giulia, you look just like Maria from
The Sound of Music
!”

Sidney's sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as she circled Giulia. “It's like you're an old-maid librarian or something. All your hair is gone, too.” She stuck her nose up to Giulia's chest. “Ew. What a creepy crucifix. The ones in Olivier's parents' house are plain silver or wood. This one's too realistic for me, even with the miniature saints and angels all over it.”

Frank was biting his cheek and looked suspiciously innocent. Giulia turned her back on him and stopped Sidney's great white shark impersonation.

“Sidney, what happened to you?”

Her tanned face now looked like a grade-schooler's idea of splotchy polka dots.

Sidney threw her hands in the air. “It's all Olivier's fault. We had our first real argument last night. He said my stir-fried tofu tasted like little soy sponges, and I said he was going to die of a heart attack before he turned forty. He actually eats rare steak.” She shuddered. “Then he said I wasn't seeing both sides of the argument because I never ate ‘real' food. He said if I ate a Twinkie and admitted it was Heaven with cream filling, he'd eat my tofu-veggie loaf for dinner.”

“And the hives?”

Sidney stomped her foot. “I ate the whole thing while he watched—it was disgusting! All that over-processed flour and trans fats and sugar. About five minutes after I swallowed the last bite, I started to itch all over. And my nose stuffed up so bad, I had to irrigate it three times. While I did that, he found an allergy website. We narrowed it down to the yellow dye, of course. Chemicals are evil!”

“You didn't end up in the hospital?”

“No, my throat didn't close up or anything, so as allergies go it's not that bad, but I am so furious! I'm never sick, not even with a cold, and Olivier's messed up my whole immune system because he had to be stubborn.”

Giulia wasn't sure how she was keeping a straight face. Sidney looked like a tall, brown version of the famous “mad bluebird” photograph. “You are going to milk this for all it's worth, right?”

Sidney stopped rubbing her arms. “Huh?”

Frank leveraged himself off Giulia's desk. “You took his dare and beat him at it. Olivier will be a walking guilt machine till those hives fade.”

Giulia practically saw the light bulb illuminate the top of Sidney's head.

“I never thought of it like that. He already left two messages on my phone, but I ignored them.”

“The next time he calls, answer and let him do all the talking. A little groveling will be good for his soul.”

Frank
tsk
ed. “Women. You're all manipulators.”

“Yet you still chase us.”

He pushed through the tissue paper on Giulia's desk and held up the wedding band. “Even though all you're after is one of these.”

Sidney's mouth mirrored the
O
of the ring. “What's that for?” she glanced at Frank, then away again.

“It's part of my undercover outfit. All nuns who take final vows wear one. You've heard nuns referred to as Brides of Christ. Final vows are like wedding vows in a sense, so we get a wedding ring.”

“I never knew that.”

“Since I'm pretending to be my old self, I need to wear it again.”

“Ooh, put it on, please! I want a picture.”

“So do I.” Frank held up his phone. “Smile for the cell phones, please.”

The fastest way to get out of this is to play along.
Giulia slipped the ring over the proper finger. A little loose, but better than having to spray her finger with cooking spray to remove it when all this was over.

With a big, fake grin on her face, she held up her left hand and waited for the
click
s.

Four

Frank snaked through the
bistro tables that crowded the floor of the Laff It Up comedy club, a Corona in each hand. Every table was full and the bar was standing-room only. On the walls, the framed photos of famous comedians seemed to rattle with the decibel level.

He handed one of the beers to Giulia as he sat down. “They're out of limes. Sorry.”

“This is fine.” Giulia took a drink.
Thin, but cold. At least it's thirty degrees warmer in here than outside.

The waiter must have been three steps behind Frank, because he set their enchiladas in front of them while the bottle was still at her lips. Her stomach growled, but she was sure no one else heard it.

Frank swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Forgot to tell you. Blake emailed me with another commission.”

Blake, Frank's former schoolmate and the vice president of the AtlanticEdge tech company, had fulfilled Frank's prediction. When Driscoll Investigations saved Blake's life—and high-society marriage—from a crazed stalker, Frank knew that a grateful Blake would talk up Driscoll Investigations to the right people at AtlanticEdge.

“It's better than delivering subpoenas to pay the bills, right?” Giulia cut another forkful of tortillas, meat, and gooey cheese. “I should learn to cook Mexican.”

“God, yes. Subpoenas, I mean. No more forced encounters with losers who have more guns than brains. If Blake keeps up this pace, I might have to refuse one of his offers.” He looked to the ceiling. “Saint Joseph, patron of hard-working men, I was only joking. I love all this work.”

“Hopefully Saint Joseph will read your intention rather than your flippancy.” Her eyebrows met. “I'm talking like a maiden great-aunt again.”

Frank swallowed his beer too quickly. “At least you recognize it.” He gave her the grin that meant
I'm going to get a rise out of Giulia
. “Pretty soon you'll sound young enough for me to take home to meet the family.”

The lights dimmed as though Frank had given a cue.

Giulia hissed over the preliminary applause, “I'm younger than you, Mr. Driscoll.”

“And tonight you're finally dressed like it.”

She kicked his shin—lightly. He grimaced at her and whispered, “I'll get you for that.”

Giulia adjusted the sleeves of her faux-silk shirt.
I know I look modern and a little sexy, Frank Driscoll, because Mingmei helped me pick out these clothes.

When Frank hired Giulia away from the coffee shop below his office, Giulia trained the new barista. Mingmei, Giulia's opposite in practically everything, became something Giulia hadn't had in ten years—a female friend. Close relationships were still frowned on in the convent. At first, Giulia didn't even know how to carry on a light conversation. But then Mingmei caught Giulia reading
Cosmo
magazine at lunch, and Giulia explained her need to catch up on the past decade.

Without Mingmei's fashion advice, Giulia might've worn a beige turtleneck and gray skirt on tonight's date.

This is a real date, too, just Frank and me. Mingmei was right about this burnt-orange shirt and black jeans. I saw it in Frank's eyes when he picked me up. So there, maiden-aunt Giulia. Go tat a doily.

Frank jogged her elbow. “Wake up. The opening act is as good as the headliner.”

“I'm awake. What kind of act?”

“Puns and one-liners. If you're not laughing in five minutes, you're dead.”

_____

Two hours later, Frank's hand came down over Giulia's as she touched the door handle of her apartment building.

“Are you going to ask me in, Ms. Falcone?”

Giulia stiffened, and not because of the sharp wind. “Frank, you're my employer.”

“That's an excuse and you know it.” He squeezed her hand. “Afraid?”

I can prove to him I'm not an old maid. Boundaries are flexible.

Giulia turned on him as the wind cut between them. “Come in for coffee. Since it's after eleven now, I'll let you corrupt me enough to sleep in and get to ten o'clock Mass tomorrow.”

He laughed. “Your concept of sin needs work.”

He closed the door after her and she led him to the end of the first floor.

“Remember, Frank, my boundaries are only so flexible.”

“Ma'am; yes, ma'am.”

She writhed her lips to hide a smile and turned the deadbolt. “I'll start coffee. I don't have cable, so you're stuck with the Saturday night programming for the dateless. Amaretto or caramel or espresso blend?”

“Uh, no thanks on the flavored coffee. Espresso's fine.” Frank's footsteps headed toward the living room. “You have to tell my mother how you keep these tomato plants bearing this late in the year.”

“Sidney's alpaca fertilizer,” she called from inside the refrigerator. She came out with milk and half a chocolate pie. “Have you heard her family's latest radio jingle?”

“Unfortunately. It's the definition of earworm.”

The aroma of strong, dark coffee filled the galley kitchen. “If I ever bought one of their scarves, I'd hear that ‘spin-tastic' song every time I put it on.”

Frank returned to the kitchen. “So much for your Christmas present. That coffee smells good. I get dessert, too?”

“Don't be too flattered. I didn't want the pie to go bad while I'm forced to relive my past.” Then she smiled. “Okay; be flattered. I could've frozen this.”

“I am duly impressed. Someday I'll charm you into making spaghetti for me, too.”

She set cups, milk, and sugar on a tray. “Sorry. When a woman cooks for you, it's a sign she considers the relationship an intimate one.”
Good Heavens, you big-mouthed broad, shut up!

He popped the plastic lid off the pie. “I'll remember that. Got a knife?”

She poured coffee while he sliced. He carried the tray to the coffee table and Giulia turned on the late movie—a Nick and Nora Charles rerun.

At least it isn't a romance. Which is as close as I'm going to get to admitting how much I want Frank to kiss me.

She leaned forward to pick up her coffee. Frank picked up her hand before she touched the handle, pulled her toward him, and kissed her.

Some part of Giulia's brain tried to put together a complete sentence, and failed.

Frank pulled a millimeter away. Giulia remained where she was, eyes closed, and Frank kissed her again.

“I like your flexible boundaries,” he murmured.

Before she could answer, he put one hand against the small of her back and the other around her shoulders. Her mouth opened and his tongue touched hers.

Don't sabotage this, old maid Giulia.

She slid her hand into his buzzed hair and initiated the next kiss. His right hand moved around her shoulder and touched her ear, then her neck. It traveled to the top curve of her breast beneath the silk. She breathed in a long, shaky breath. He froze.

Her eyes opened. He leaned away and stared at his hand like it belonged to someone else.

“What?”

He snatched away his hand. “Shit. Boundaries. I'm sorry.”

She made a face. “I didn't protest.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn't touch you like that. You're a nun.”

“What?”

“I'm going to Hell. I can just hear my grandmother now.”

“I am an ex-nun. Ex.” She sat back against the couch. “I'll show you my discharge papers.”

Frank rubbed his face. “You're different. Set apart. There's no way I should be thinking about that lacy bra beneath that soft shirt.” He gulped. “Sorry. Shit.”

“Maybe I'm okay with it.”

His eyes flicked to her cleavage. “Damn it, don't say things like that.” He straightened his shoulders. “I apologize. I'll remember how to be a gentleman next time.”

“You were perfectly—” She gave it up. An adult male with a beguiling grin no longer sat next to her. He'd been usurped by a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
I never thought of my breasts as cookies before.
A giggle spluttered out of her.

She waved away his questioning look. “The coffee's getting cold.”

Frank handed Giulia her cup. As she watched him stab the first bite of his pie, she thought,
This isn't over, Frank Driscoll. I'll make you remember I'm a woman, not a plastic statue. As soon as I'm out of the convent
…
again.