Read an excerpt of The Morning Star

 Chapter 1

Freddie pulled her fists up to her shoulders and shivered. “I am as nervous as nun without knickers!” 

Janetta, her sister-in-law, laughed and slapped Freddie’s back. “Where’d that come from?”

Freddie watched Janetta in the mirror as she stood behind her and fussed with Freddie’s hair. “I heard it on some British comedy I was watching when Anastasia had me up in the middle of the night.”

Janetta selected a comb and teased some hair at the top of Freddie’s crown. “You better not say that around Irma; she may think it sacrilegious.”

“Ah, I think Irma would laugh. She told me some of the stuff Peg used to say.”

Both women’s eyes gravitated to the framed photo of the late Peg McMaster hanging on the bedroom wall. The room had been Peg’s and had been redone when Freddie moved into the apartment. The gold sculptured carpeting had been replaced with a soft white plush that Freddie compulsively loved to curl her toes in the pile when she was stressed. The walls were now painted a serene shade of blue, and instead of Peg’s old, dark, heavy wooden bedroom furniture, the room now looked light and airy with Freddie’s new, white French country bedroom suite that she’d purchased when she’d taken the job working at the bar, Mac’s Place, which was below the apartment. With the blue walls and white carpeting, when Freddie lay in bed and the morning sun streamed in the window, she often felt as if she were sleeping in the clouds. And she wondered how she’d been so fortunate to end up here when she considered the other places where she’d slept. 

Peg and her late husband had established the bar years before the present proprietor, her son, Gerry “Mac” McMaster, was born. Gerry and his wife, Anne, had either removed or renovated everything in the apartment that was Peg’s before Freddie and her young daughter, Anastasia, had moved in—all except for Peg’s photo on the wall and the large Sacred Heart statue on the credenza in the hall. Gerry said if he got rid of the statue, Peg would haunt him. Freddie liked having both items in the apartment. Sometimes, when she was lonely, she imagined that Peg and Jesus were there with her watching over her and little Anastasia. 

“Mama mia! Peg was something else,” said Janetta. She stopped fluffing Freddie’s hair and rested a hand on her hip, as if calling to mind a memory of the old woman. She pointed a comb at Freddie. “At first, she didn’t like me much, but when she found out I adored Frank Sinatra, we became goombahs.” Janetta smiled wistfully.

Freddie stared at the photo of the old woman with the white hair and beautiful blue eyes as she beamed gleefully on her 80th birthday. “I’ve never seen a photo of Gerry’s dad, but I think Gerry must look like his father,” said Janetta. “But he definitely has Peg’s beautiful blue eyes.” 

Freddie had heard so many funny stories about Peg, she wished she’d known the woman in whose apartment she and Anastasia now lived.

Janetta threw up a hand dismissively. “But no matter how I tried, I could never break her of saying that I was Eye-talian instead of It-alian.”

“Old habits are hard to break,” said Freddie, warming her hands, which were cold from nerves. “Back in the day, I’d be down in the bar tossing back shots of Jack Daniel’s about now to calm myself.” She wrinkled her nose, holding her breath to ward off the cloud of hair spray that enveloped her head. Janetta shielded Freddie’s eyes with her one hand and pumped the bottle, dousing her hair with spray with the other. She was using so much, Freddie wondered if Janetta realized that she was only heading downstairs to the party room and not into a tornado.

“Whiskey, really?” Janetta asked, setting the plastic bottle of hair spray on the dresser and fluffing and fussing over Freddie’s hair a bit more. She frowned and narrowed her black eyes, and then fiddled with the fringe of bangs, sweeping them to the side. “You’re just like your brother. Must be the Irish in you. I’d much rather have many glasses of Montepulciano or a nice Limoncello if I were going to get blitzed.” She stepped back and surveyed Freddie like she was Botticelli appraising his work on his Venus. “Bellissimo!” she declared, and backhanded Freddie’s shoulder. “Now, why would you be nervous? You look drop-dead gorgeous.” Janetta checked herself in the mirror too and smiled. “And remember, appearances are everything.”

They both laughed, knowing how Janetta revealed that when she’d first met Freddie’s brother, Bob, had deemed his appearance as being like that of a gnocchi—a big white blob—and how his down-to-earth kindness and goodness had turned her head making her fall in love with him.

But in this case, appearances are everything, thought Freddie, as she rose from the vanity chair. If the crowd sees past the makeover Janetta has given me, they’ll discover that on the inside I’m as rickety as an old wooden fence.

While Janetta gathered up her combs, brushes, curling iron, and hair products, Freddie gazed at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She felt her mind veering toward that well-worn path of her obsessive-compulsive disorder, wanting to look over her speech again, but she willed herself not to. She knew the words by heart. And she reassured herself that the anxiety she was feeling was normal. She’d read in some psychology article that many people fear speaking in public more than death. Right now, she’d prefer death. OK, that’s an exaggeration. Get a hold of yourself, Fred. 

She distracted her rambling mind by checking her appearance. Her long blonde hair looked full and shiny like those of models who tossed their locks in slow motion in shampoo commercials and her makeup was perfect. It was as a sharp contrast to the simple ponytail and the swipe of mascara and dash of lip gloss that she usually wore. She had to admit she did look fantastic thanks to her sister-in-law. She peered more closely at her face and then glanced over her shoulder. “Janetta, you are awesome. You even covered my freckles!”

“Not quite,” said Janetta, standing beside her and touching her cheek. “I just toned them down a bit. I used a sheer foundation that evened out your skin tone but left your freckles come through.” She shrugged. “Anne and your brother have made me a convert to the beauty of freckles.”

“Well, I’m still not sold on them,” Freddie said. “They make you look like a little kid. No one with freckles looks suave and sophisticated.” She gazed at her exotically beautiful sister-in-law. “Like you always do.”

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” Janetta quipped and laughing, looked in the mirror again, dabbing at her red lipstick, and then smiling approvingly of her appearance. 

Freddie wished that she could feel that pleased with herself. She looked over her shoulder to check the back of her powder blue suit. Then she adjusted the bow of the white and blue polka dot blouse. She had to admit she looked the part of someone who had it all together, like an up-and-coming young executive, but her stomach felt as if she’d drank curdled milk. Why did I get involved in this? The thought of walking out in front of a room full of strangers and talking about her life made her want to vomit. 

She was known for being chatty, and Bob often criticized her for telling everyone her business, but that usually happened in small conversations. Like last week when she and Bob were out looking for cars, and she blurted to the salesman that she was only looking as she was still saving her money because she was a former addict, but in recovery. Bob had been horrified and gave her that glaring TMI – Too Much Information—look of his. No, she had no problem sharing what she’d done and where she’d been when in conversation because she thought that perhaps by doing so, she could help someone avoid the heartache she’d suffered. And she certainly had no trouble speaking when she had been in her therapy group because everyone there was in the same boat and understood how lost you could become. But now she was about to face a crowd of successful, normal people and bare her soul. Her corroded, broken soul. 

She reached out and touched Janetta’s hand. “Thank you. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Oddio! Your hands are like ice. Are you really that nervous?”

Freddie nodded sheepishly. “This is Don Enzo’s main fundraiser, and it was my idea to have it here. I don’t want to crash and burn. Not just for my sake but for theirs too. They’re counting on me.” She also wanted to prove to everyone that she was not a screw-up. Everyone had been kind to her and supportive, but she knew that sometimes they treated her like she was fragile. She wanted to prove to herself and everyone that she was reformed and ready for more in life.

Janetta pointed at Freddie. “I’m going to give you the same advice I gave your brother when we went to Rome to sell his invention.” She drew herself up regally, even her baby bulge looking authoritative. “Act like you’ve been here before. Go in there and take charge of that room. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You’re an upstanding person now— a fantastic employee and devoted mom.” She waved her index finger around, pointing at an imaginary audience. “They’re no better than you. Listen to me, bella. I’ve learned that everybody’s a mess—some just disguise it better.”

That was easy for her to say, Freddie thought. Janetta thrived on attention. Even now at five months’ pregnant, when she walked into the room with her long black hair, smoldering dark eyes, and striking figure enhanced now by fuller breasts, she still turned heads and bloomed under scrutiny. 

“When you act with confidence, it puts others at ease,” Janetta said. “They will feel safe and superior to you.”

“Superior? That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Don’t be. That’s what you want. No one likes someone they perceive to be better than them. That inspires hate. They’re going to love you. People love an underdog.” 

“I’m not an underdog. I’m a messed-up addict.” Simply, stating that aloud, provoked a wave of panic in her and made her want to check her speech again. 

“Former addict.” 

Freddie rolled her blue eyes. “OK, former addict. But your advice didn’t exactly work out for Bob in Rome.”

Janetta waved her hands in the air. “What happened with Terratalia in Rome, wasn’t his fault. Anyway, it all worked out for the best. You got me for a sister-in-law in exchange,” she touched her belly. “And a little niece on the way.”

Freddie gasped. “It’s a girl? You didn’t tell me you knew the baby’s sex.”

“I don’t. I’m just putting that out there hoping that if I say it often enough, that it will come true. I think every hairdresser envisions having a little girl so she can style and play with her hair.”

“It’s getting late,” Bob called from the living room. 

Janetta slapped her arm, “Come on, bella. Time to dazzle.”

Or fizzle, thought Freddie.