Nine
I RETURN FROM THE SATURDAY Vigil Mass to the most delightful smell of garlic, tomato sauce, and Italian sausage.
My mouth is watering by the time I get halfway across the entryway, even more so when Helen emerges from the kitchen wearing a white, slightly sauce-splattered apron. She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail, but a few curls have escaped and frame her damp, pink face.
I try to resist the urge but can’t, and say, in my best 1950s sitcom husband voice, “Hi, honey, I’m home.”
Without missing a beat she glides across the floor, kisses me chastely on the cheek, and says happily, “Oh, Tom, how was your day at the office? Did you talk to Mr. G about that raise?”
“Yes, Helen, I did. But he said no.”
“Oh, no,” she replies with exaggerated disappointment. “I just hope the gir
