Cassandra's Song

“More than friends?”

Antonio laughed. “Didn’t we agree to be colleagues in a friendly little conspiracy…?”

“Oh, you mean our parents. Of course!” She raised her water glass. “To your mother and my father…and whatever the future may bring.”

Even as Cassandra and Antonio toasted their harmless matchmaking scheme, she had an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. What was it? What was her heart trying to tell her? She had no words for it, but she sensed she was opening the door to a barrage of emotional complications she had never bargained for. And now, as Antonio clasped her hand across the table, she knew it was too late to turn back….

CAROLE GIFT PAGE

writes from the heart about issues facing women today. A prolific author of over forty books and 800 stories and articles, she has published both fiction and nonfiction with a dozen major Christian publishers, including Thomas Nelson, Moody Press, Crossway Books, Bethany House, Tyndale House and Harvest House. An award-winning novelist, Carole has received the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award and been a finalist several times for the prestigious Gold Medallion Award and the Campus Life Book of the Year Award.

A frequent speaker at churches, conferences, conventions, schools and retreats around the country, Carole shares her testimony and encourages women everywhere to discover and share their deepest passions, to keep passion alive on the home front and to unleash their passion for Christ (based on her inspiring new book, Becoming a Woman of Passion, by Fleming Revell).

Born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, Carole taught creative writing at Biola University in La Mirada, California, and serves on the Advisory Board of the American Christian Writers. She and her husband, Bill, live in Southern California and have three children (besides Misty in heaven) and three beautiful grandchildren.

Cassandra’s Song

Carole Gift Page

www.millsandboon.co.uk

But God—so rich is He in His mercy! Because of

and in order to satisfy the great and wonderful and

intense love with which He loved us, even when we

were dead (slain) by [our own] shortcomings and

trespasses, He made us alive together in fellowship

and in union with Christ; [He gave us the very life

of Christ Himself, the same new life with which He

quickened Him, for] it is by grace (His favor and

mercy which you did not deserve) that you are

saved (delivered from judgment and made partakers

of Christ’s salvation).

—Ephesians 2: 4-5

In loving memory of my mother-and father-in-law, Alice and Anthony Page (born Antonio Pagliarulo) and in loving memory of their granddaughter and my niece, Karen Geston Abeloe. Your family loves you and misses you deeply.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

A ndrew Rowlands was just changing into something comfortable when his oldest daughter Cassandra peeked inside the bedroom door and said, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Daddy.”

He turned and flashed a generous smile. “Thanks, Cassie. I’ll be right down.”

She didn’t budge, just kept watching him. Her lovely face was doing the thing it always did when she was displeased. Her clear blue eyes darkened, her finely arched brows furrowed, and her heart-shaped lips slipped into a pout. “Oh, Daddy!”

“What’s wrong, kitten?” It was all he could do to hold back a chuckle. Cassie was twenty-six years old, but that childlike scowl brought back memories of a strong-willed toddler who stubbornly held her ground when she wanted something. How often he and Mandy had exchanged helpless smiles when their daughter folded her chubby arms and crooned, “Please, Mommy…Please, Daddy!”

“So what’s up, honey?” he asked now. “You look like you have something to say.”

She shook her pretty blond head. “No, Daddy. It’s just…you’re not going to wear that ratty old sweater to dinner, are you?”

He glanced in the mirror at his rumpled, brown, button-down sweater. “Why not? It’s my favorite. I’ve worn it all my life.”

“I know, Daddy. It looks it! Why don’t you wear your new dress shirt and the tie I gave you last Christmas?”

“For Pete’s sake, I’m only going downstairs to my own dining room for a heaping plate of spaghetti.” Fridays were always spaghetti nights. His youngest daughter Frannie’s specialty. She had become chief cook and bottle washer after Mandy’s death five years ago. A downright good cook she had become, too. Of his three daughters Frannie was most like her mother—a charming little spitfire at heart and oh, so overly protective. As if he needed protecting at his age!

“So will you change, Daddy?” Cassie remained in the doorway, grilling him with her gaze.

“If you insist. But a good white shirt and spaghetti don’t mix well. You know that, especially on laundry days.”

She beamed. “Don’t worry, Daddy. You won’t spill a drop.”

He returned a wry smile. “And if you believe that, my beauty, you’re sadly deluded. I’ll need a bib the size of a pup tent.”

Brianna, his middle daughter, had actually stitched a humongous terry cloth bib for him once—and later made them for her sisters as well—and all his daughters had laughed in bemused delight as she tied it around his neck while he sat, fork and knife ready, to attack a luscious mountain of meatballs and spaghetti. He had smugly devoured the entire plate without so much as a dollop of sauce on that voluminous bib. He had even managed to slip a meatball or two under the table to Ruggs, the family’s mop-haired mongrel mascot, so named because as a puppy he had a penchant for burrowing like a gopher under the throw rugs.

Cassie ignored his comment about the bib. “Splash on some of that smelly aftershave, too, Daddy,” she urged.

Before he could protest, she slipped back out and shut the door. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror and mumbled, “Something’s brewing. Something’s always going on with those three girls. Wonder what—or who—it is this time?”

In deference to his daughters’ wishes—when had he not given in to his daughters?—Andrew reluctantly pulled off his comfy threadbare sweater. With a sigh of resignation he slipped on his starched dress shirt and grabbed the monogrammed silk tie Cassandra had given him last Christmas. He buttoned the shirt and knotted the tie with deft fingers, casting a squint-eyed glance in the dresser mirror at his hefty, six-foot-four frame. Not bad for an old geezer two years short of the half-century mark. He still had his college-football physique in spite of the mountains of spaghetti his daughters had plied him with over the past five years. They hadn’t let him miss a meal, that was for sure. Yes, indeed, they were good girls. The best.

He gazed at the familiar framed photograph of his wife on the bureau. “You’d be proud of your daughters, Mandy,” he said in a husky whisper, his eyes misting over. “They’ve taken good care of me since…since we lost you. Too good. I think they’re matchmaking again. But they should know they’ll never find a woman for me as perfect as their mother.”

A familiar ache rose in his chest. After all this time he still felt a compulsive need to confide all the details of his life to his wife, God rest her soul. He cleared his throat and said aloud, “Mandy, I promise you, I’m as determined to protect our daughters, as they are to find me a new wife.”

He paused, casting a glance around the comfortable bedroom that had been his and Mandy’s for well over twenty years. He hadn’t changed a thing since her death—not the chintz curtains or flowered wallpaper or blown-glass knickknacks. Even her perfume decanters remained on the dresser where he could breathe in her scent when he was lonely.

“Truth is, Mandy,” he said with a weary sigh, “I’m worried about the girls. They should all be out finding themselves husbands—good, decent, godly men—instead of hanging around the house taking care of me. Sure, they’ve got busy lives and successful careers, but I want them to experience the kind of love you and I shared. A special devotion only God can give a man and a woman. But, short of my prayers, I haven’t a clue how to make sure they find that kind of love.”

Andrew ran a comb through his thick, wavy brown hair and, as Cassie requested, splashed some aftershave on his cheeks. He chuckled craftily. “This stuff makes me smell like a perfume factory. Just hope the lady they’ve invited for dinner isn’t allergic.”

With a jaunty flourish he straightened his tie and strode out of the room, his head up, shoulders squared. Time to face the music. Or whatever mystery woman the girls had planned for him tonight. He cast a glance heavenward and smiled. Lord, let this evening not be a total fiasco. I’m sure the girls have worked hard and have the best of intentions. But You know I’m not in the market for a wife, no matter how many socks she can mend or how many soufflés she can bake without collapsing.

He was halfway down the spiral oak staircase, the pungent aroma of well-done roast beef in his nostrils—what happened to the usual spaghetti?—when he heard the melodic voices of his daughters rising from the kitchen. He paused with a bemused smile and listened. Let’s just see what you girls are up to.

Cassandra was shouting into the sunroom just off the kitchen. “Frannie, we need your help! When are you going to finish heaping clay on that monstrosity of a sculpture and come rescue this dinner?”

Frannie, from the sunroom: “It’s not a monstrosity; it’s a bust of Amelia Earhart, and if I stop now the clay will harden.”

“But you’re the cook in the family,” Brianna, his middle child, protested. “Just come check the roast, Frannie. Please! It’s tough as leather. What can we do with it?”

“Play football,” came the miffed retort.

“Good one, Frannie,” said Andrew under his breath from his stairway perch. He laughed in spite of himself. “My mellow, dulcet daughters. The three muses. Should have named them Faith, Hope and Love.”

At the moment their mellifluous voices were rising in shrill desperation. “Frannie, get in here! Bree is scorching the roast!”

“Not me, Frannie. It’s Cassie.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just give me a minute,” said Frannie, sounding exasperated. “But if the dinner is wrecked, that’s what you two get for trying to marry Daddy off to every unattached woman in town!”

Andrew meandered on down the stairs. He couldn’t stifle another smile. Maybe the humiliation of a burned roast would teach his daughters to lay off the matchmaking. He sauntered into the kitchen where he could see Frannie in the sunroom beside the armature of her latest sculpture; she was in her artist’s smock, wet clay up to her elbows. Cassandra and Brianna stood beside the kitchen stove, peering into a pan that contained a black mound that could have been a large lump of coal or a small meteor that had burned up on entering earth’s atmosphere.

“Daddy, there’s a little problem with dinner,” Bree said. “I was on the phone with a client whose husband ran off with his secretary and left her alone with seven children. She was so upset, I just couldn’t break away—”

“And, Daddy, I was in the music room practicing the piano for Sunday’s cantata,” Cassandra lamented, “and it never occurred to me a roast needed so much water—”

“That’s because you two leave all the cooking to me,” Frannie said, emerging from the sunroom brushing a wisp of golden hair back from her clay-smudged cheek.

“That’s because we both work and you’re here at home…sculpting,” Cassandra stated thickly. “Besides, you always say you love cooking for Daddy.”

“I do, and if I’d had my way, we’d be having our usual spaghetti. It’s Daddy’s favorite.” She looked petulantly at Andrew. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”

“Yes, dear, but I love anything my girls fix, you know that.”

“Even this burnt offering?” challenged Frannie, pointing a clay-caked finger accusingly at the charred roast.

Andrew grimaced. A layer of smoke had settled around the ceiling, and he had to admit the smell was slightly reminiscent of brimstone. “Well, it’s the…the thought that counts. But maybe tonight we might think about going out to dinner.” He flicked his starched collar. “After all, I’m already dressed up.”

“That’s not necessary, Daddy,” said Frannie, going to the sink and turning on the spigot. “I’ll wash up and fix my usual spaghetti.” She gave her sisters a knowing look. “I should have it ready by the time our guest arrives.”

“Guest?” echoed Andrew, feigning ignorance.

Brianna tossed back her long russet hair, her cheeks turning a deep rose. “We’re having company, Daddy. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why would I mind?” He could play their little game. “Who’s coming to dinner? Someone I know?”

“No, Daddy,” Cassandra said, nervously patting her upswept chignon. Several ringlets of her silky champagne-blond hair bobbed against her high cheekbones as she placed the lid on the roast and carried the pan toward the back door. “I’ll just put this outside where it can’t hurt anyone, and be right back.”

“Don’t feed it to Ruggs,” warned Frannie. “We don’t want to have to rush him off to the vet tonight.”

“Don’t worry, sister dear. I’ll dispose of this culinary disaster in the garbage. You just get that spaghetti started.”

“You girls still haven’t told me. Who’s coming over?”

Bree averted her gaze. “A very nice lady from my counseling center. She’s a child psychologist. We work together sometimes when I’m counseling families going through death or divorce. She’s wonderful with troubled children. You’ll love her, Daddy.”

“What’s her name?” asked Andrew, maintaining a noncommittal tone.

Brianna flashed a beatific smile. “Emma Sorenson.”

“Emma Sorenson?” countered Cassandra, returning inside from the backyard with Ruggs yapping at her heels. The roly-poly, mop-faced animal, probably a hundred in dog years, leaped up eagerly on Andrew, his big paws leaving grimy prints on Andrew’s dress shirt.

“Okay, Ruggsy, boy, that’s enough. Down, boy!”

“What do you mean, Emma Sorenson!” Cassandra repeated, staring Brianna down. “My dear sister, we were supposed to invite Lydia Dibbles, that new lady in church.”

Bree stared back, refusing to be intimidated. “I called Lydia and she wasn’t home, so I asked Emma at work the next day.”

“Well, I saw Lydia at church on Sunday and invited her!” Cassandra’s voice had reached a decibel level that would have amazed even her music teachers at Juilliard.

There was dead silence as everyone recognized their awkward dilemma. Andrew broke the silence good-naturedly commenting, “Ah, now I see. We’re expecting two dinner guests. Marvelous. I’ll put another chair around the table.”

Chapter Two

C assandra moaned in surprise as the doorbell rang. “Oh, no! I’ll get it, but it’s too late to ‘uninvite’ anybody. Bree, hurry and put another place setting on the table. Frannie, turn up the burner under the spaghetti. And, Daddy, get that smirk off your face. This isn’t funny.”

Andrew held up his hands placatingly, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. “I’m innocent in this little caper. But you know what they say, girls. The more the merrier.”

Brianna shook her head in mock despair. “Oh, this is going to be a fun evening. I can see it already.”

“Just keep smiling, girls, no matter what happens!” With that lame bit of advice, Cassandra turned on her stacked heels and strode down the hall to the wide marble entry. She wiped her moist palms on the ruffled apron that covered her knit, lime-green dress, then flung open the double doors with a welcoming smile in place.

Lydia Dibbles, an attractive fortyish matron in a smart pale-blue leisure suit, stood on the sprawling, lattice-trimmed porch. She was a short, buxom woman with bright, violet eyes, a generous smile in her round face, and silver streaks in her auburn hair.

“Lydia, welcome,” Cassandra said with a little too much relief in her voice. Maybe the other woman wouldn’t show up after all and they would be saved the embarrassment of this doomed “double date.” “Come in, please come in.”

Lydia stepped inside. “Thank you, Cassie. My, you look pretty tonight. Your cheeks are red as roses. I bet you’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day.”

“You could say that. May I, um, take your coat?”

Lydia shrugged. “I don’t have a coat, dear.”

Cassie laughed self-consciously. “Of course you don’t.” She was about to shut the double doors when she spied another figure in a gray pantsuit coming up the walk…a tall, slender woman with a brown page-boy and wire-rim glasses.

“Emma? Emma Sorenson?” Cassie asked as the woman scaled the porch steps.

“Yes, I’m Emma. And you must be Brianna’s sister.”

“Yes, I’m Cassie, the oldest.” She beckoned Emma inside. “I’m so glad you could come to dinner, Emma.” Cassie looked apprehensively over at Lydia and added, “Both of you.”

The two women gazed at each other and exchanged polite but curious smiles.

“Emma, this is Lydia,” Cassie said brightly. “Lydia, Emma.”

“Goodness, I didn’t realize this was going to be a party,” said Lydia, looking mildly flustered.

“Just a small dinner party,” Cassie assured her. “Come with me, ladies.”

“You have a lovely home,” Emma stated, gazing around as they passed through the parlor to the dining room. “Such a stately old house. I bet it has a wonderful history.”

Cassie chuckled and said under her breath, “Oh, yes, we’re making history in this house all the time.”

As they entered the dining room, her father came to her rescue, bounding toward their visitors as if two guests had been the operative number all along.

“Well, ladies, welcome! I’m so glad you could join us for dinner.”

“Thank you, Reverend Rowlands,” Lydia said shyly. “I’ve so enjoyed your messages. You have a wonderful way of speaking. I always leave church feeling blessed.”

“Well, thank you kindly. You’ve certainly made my day.”

“Daddy, this is Lydia Dibbles,” said Cassie. “And this is Emma…”

“Sorenson. Your daughter Brianna and I work together at the family counseling center, Reverend Rowlands. She has a heart of pure gold, that girl. Folks love her.”

“Yes, she has a real heart for people,” said Andrew, leading the two women toward the linen-draped table. “And, please, both of you call me Andrew. The title Reverend intimidates even me.”

Lydia twittered, “Oh, Andrew, what a precious sense of humor you have!”

While her father kept their two guests entertained, Cassandra excused herself and headed for the kitchen. “Is the salad ready, Bree? Let’s get this dinner over with before everything blows up in our faces.”

Bree tossed the salad greens. “Let’s not panic. Maybe Daddy won’t mind having two dates.”

“Are you kidding?” countered Frannie as she drained the pasta. “Until a few minutes ago he didn’t even know he was having one date! If you two keep up your matchmaking schemes, Daddy will banish the three of us from this house.”

Cassandra stared skeptically at her youngest sister. “Why on earth would he do that? He loves having us here. We’re all he has.”

“And all he needs,” Frannie said. “Daddy’s perfectly happy with things just the way they are, so why shouldn’t we be, too?”

Brianna placed silver tongs in the salad bowl. “But we’ve got to be realistic, Frannie. Someday the three of us will want lives of our own. We’ll get married and move away. Then who will take care of Daddy?”

“Move away? Speak for yourself,” Frannie said. “I have no plans to leave home. I like it here. I like taking care of Daddy.”

“We all do,” conceded Cassie. “We have a wonderful family. I don’t know of any family as close as we are. But, still, someday one of us might meet someone and decide to…to get married.”

“Bite your tongue,” said Frannie with a grudging little smile. “I’m only twenty-two and I’ve still got to establish my reputation as a serious artist.”

Bree nodded. “I know, but I’m already twenty-four and wouldn’t mind meeting the right man. And with Cassie twenty-six, she’ll need to start thinking about her biological clock one of these days.”

“My biological clock?” Cassie exclaimed with mock indignation. “We’re talking about Daddy here, not me. And my biological clock is doing just fine, thank you.”

“I didn’t mean anything negative,” Bree assured her. “It’s just that you might want to start thinking about having a home and family of your own.”

Cassie put her hands on her hips and stared hard at her sister. “So what is it, Bree? Now I’m an old maid needing a man to make me feel fulfilled? That concept went out in the last century!”

Bree stared right back. “For heaven’s sake, Cassie, I’m just trying to make Frannie understand why we’re trying to find the right woman for Dad. Then any one of us can feel free to get married or travel or whatever. We won’t have to feel guilty about leaving Daddy to shift for himself.”

“Well, you two can go if you want to,” Frannie said with a determined little pout, “but I’m staying right here. Nothing could make me leave.”

“I’m not planning to leave either,” Cassie agreed. “I have my music, and I’m not about to let any man distract me from becoming a concert pianist. So there.”

“Well, I’m not leaving, either,” Bree said. “Besides, where would we find a woman who deserved our dad?”

“Fine,” Frannie huffed. “So let’s serve dinner and send our guests on their way.”

For the first few minutes, dinner went well. Brianna served the salad, Cassie the garlic bread and Frannie the spaghetti. The conversation around the table was polite, if a bit reserved. Then their father asked the question Cassie was dreading.

“Where are our bibs, Bree?”

“Bibs?” repeated Lydia Dibbles, mystified.

“Bibs?” echoed Emma Sorenson, her penciled brows rising.

“Yes, bibs,” Andrew stated as if his meaning were obvious. “We can’t eat spaghetti without bibs.” He smiled patiently at Emma and Lydia. “Brianna made us these gargantuan bibs that keep the tomato sauce off our clothes. She started with one for me.” He speared a meatball and held it up, red sauce dripping from the fork’s tines. “As you can see, I’m clumsy as they come.”

“A bib for adults! What a clever idea,” Lydia said.

Andrew nodded. “Exactly! And soon we were all using them. They free you up to slurp your spaghetti strands, if that happens to be your thing. I never could get the hang of twirling spaghetti on my fork.”

“Daddy,” Cassandra interrupted sharply, “I’m sure our guests don’t want to wear bibs. Bibs are for babies, toddlers…”

“Nonsense! Why wouldn’t they want to protect those lovely outfits?” With a twinkle in his eyes Andrew jumped up from the table, strode to the buffet and removed what appeared to be a stack of white terry cloth towels.

Cassie lowered her gaze and shook her head as her father tied a bib first around Emma’s neck and then Lydia’s. He went on to fasten a bib around each daughter’s neck, planting a kiss on the tops of their heads, and finally he tied a bib around his own neck and sat down, looking quite pleased with himself.