The Morning Star: Holy Hilarity - Book 3

By Janice Palko

Is the future the prisoner of the past?

 

Freddie White has finally gotten her life together. The former drug addict and single mom now has a steady job, tidy apartment, and the love and support of her family. When she wows the crowd with her life story at a benefit for the Don Enzo Mission, a rehabilitation center that helped her recover, she is offered an opportunity with the local newspaper, The Morning Star, which could make for an even brighter future for her and her young daughter.

 

Theodore Wright knows how to do two things—look handsome and be critical. Fired from several previous jobs because of his caustic personality, he desperately needs to keep his current position with The Morning Star. When he is sent to cover the Don Enzo benefit for the paper, he is struck by Freddie's beauty, but upon hearing her story, he dismisses her as "damaged goods." But Theodore has a past too—one he is desperate to keep concealed.

 

Things look dim when Freddie and Theodore are forced to work together and compete for a new position at The Morning Star by going on a cruise and blogging about the trip. While aboard ship, they find themselves at sea, wrestling with their pasts, preconceptions, secrets, and emotions they never thought possible.

 

The third romantic comedy in the Holy Hilarity series, The Morning Star, shines brightly with sparkling humor and charming, touching moments.

 

All aboard for laughter and love!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janice Palko
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215863206

Janice Palko

Janice Lane Palko has been a writer for nearly three decades working as an editor, columnist, freelance writer, teacher, lecturer, and novelist. She is currently the executive editor for Northern Connection and Pittsburgh Fifty-Five Plus magazines and the lead writer for the website PopularPittsburgh.com. She has had numerous articles published in publications such as The Reader’s Digest, Guideposts for Teens, Woman’s World, The Christian Science Monitor, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and St. Anthony Messenger. Her work has also been featured in the books A Cup of Comfort for Inspiration, A Cup of Comfort for Expectant Mothers, and Chicken Soup for the Single’s Soul. Most authors write in one genre, but Janice says that she is “weird” in that she likes to write both charming romantic comedies and chilling romantic suspenses. Tapping into her darker side again, she is currently working on Mother of Sorrows, a romantic suspense.

Book preview

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 through 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 eightieth 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, she 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 at 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 screwup. 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.

HOLY SMOKES! LOOK AT you, baby doll! said Irma Schmitt, as she sat in the orange plaid rocker-recliner. Freddie realized that she’d been wrong. She’d forgotten about the old chair. It was another of Peg’s belongings that still remained in the apartment. Freddie had intended to get rid of the dilapidated, old chair when she had moved in eighteen months ago, after Anne, who was a nurse, had been an immense help to Freddie when Anastasia had been hospitalized as an infant. It was Anne who had introduced her to Gerry and prompted him to employ her at the bar and allow her to live in the apartment, which had been vacant since Peg’s death.

The chair was threadbare in spots, but it was so comfortable when she had to rock little Anastasia to sleep. She vowed that when the baby got older, she would get rid of it, but she noticed that every time Irma came, she always parked her plump behind in her late friend’s favorite chair. Freddie didn’t mind the chair anymore. When she sat in it, a feeling of calm descended as she felt a kinship with Peg because, like Freddie, for most of her life Peg had been a single mom as her husband had died when Gerry was small, leaving her to run the bar.

Playing with Anastasia on the floor was Irma’s middle-aged son, Bernie, who had Down syndrome. He and Gerry had grown up together, and he was pressing the buttons on Anastasia’s Fisher-Price BeatBo while the toddler, in her fleece sleeper, swayed her little bum to the music.

Out of the corner of her eye, Freddie caught sight of Janetta nudging Bob and giving him a perturbed look as she slightly nodded toward Freddie. Oh. Yeah, you look great, Fred, her brother said after being prodded.

Thanks, Freddie said.

When Anastasia saw her mother, she put her hands in the air, crying, Mama!

Anne came into the living room and scooped up the child before Freddie could take Anastasia into her arms. Come to Auntie Anne, sweetheart, she said. Mama has to go help Uncle Gerry. Anne rested the toddler her on her hip, her stance causing her to thrust her huge belly forward. She was eight months’ pregnant. Worma, and Bernie are going to stay and play with you. Anastasia couldn’t say Irma properly, and it came out Worma, which everyone had adopted and delighted Irma, making her laugh.

You shouldn’t be carrying her, Anne, said Bob.

Nonsense. Anne hugged the toddler. Mama has to go downstairs now. Can you blow her a kiss goodbye? Anastasia touched her chubby palm to her lips and released her arm with gusto.

Everyone laughed, and Anastasia crinkled her nose and snickered devilishly, delighted with herself.

Bob took his niece from Anne and said to Irma, You sure you don’t need any help watching her? You’re not too tired? You’ve had her all day.

Irma held her arms out to Anastasia, "Come to Oma Worma." Since Anastasia had no living grandparents, Irma, who never had grandchildren, deemed herself Anastasia’s Oma, the German word for grandmother.

How lucky am I? thought Freddie, as her baby settled on to Irma’s broad lap and rested her curly head on the old woman’s generous breasts. That Anastasia didn’t have a grandmother nagged at Freddie’s conscience every day. It’s all my fault. My selfishness has deprived her of so much.

I never get tired of her. She’s a little angel. Irma smoothed the baby’s dark curls. She looks sleepy. I’m going to rock her for a bit.

As Anne, Bob, and Janetta gathered their things, Freddie patted Irma’s hand. You certainly are good to her. Then she kissed the top of Anastasia’s head and said, Love you, Antsy.

She’s my girlie. Irma squeezed Freddie’s hand. Wait, before you go, she said. One of the baby’s toys went down the side of the chair when you were getting ready. As I was digging around in the sides looking for it, I found this. It must have been Peg’s. I think she’d want you to have it. I think it’s a sign.

Freddie took the holy card and stared at the depiction of a beautiful, pious nun. She turned over the card. It said: St. Margaret of Cortona. Patron saint of penitents, reformed prostitutes, single mothers. (1247-1297).

Freddie got chills. Maybe it was a sign; it sure felt like one.

Pray to her. She’ll help you, Irma said.

All Freddie could do was stare at the young woman on the card.

Now, you go and show them what you’re made of, honey, said Irma.

What did Irma give you? asked Janetta as they made their way through the kitchen.

This, said Freddie as she held up the card. Janetta stopped and looked at it.

"Ah, that’s Santa Margarita de Cortona. That’s her real—Italian name. My mother used to pray to her about me."

Did it work?

Janetta laughed devilishly. Took a while, but I’m here now. Happily married and pregnant. So, I guess so.

As Bob held the door, Anne, Janetta, and Freddie walked past him, heading down the stairs to the sound of Irma singing Be My Little Baby Bumblebee to Anastasia. Freddie’s legs wobbled in her heels as she heard the din of the crowd waiting for her in the bar. She tucked St. Margaret’s holy card into her pocket as Irma’s words: Show them what you’re made of echoed in her mind.

Show them what you’re made of. That was exactly what she didn’t want to do and exactly what terrified her most.

CHAPTER 2

Arriving at the foot of the stairs, the group then walked down the short hallway and entered the main bar and dining area of Mac’s Place. The volume of voices told Freddie that the bar was crowded. She’d worked there for a year and a half, and you could tell how packed the place was by the crowd’s chatter.

Gerry, the owner, with his dark hair and bright blue eyes, was as handsome as ever and was milling about in the crowd clustered at the dark wooden bar shaking hands, patting people on the back, complementing women, making them giggle and blush. He was wearing a navy sports jacket and opened collar blue and white striped shirt. He never wore a jacket in the bar, so Freddie knew this was a special occasion. He acknowledged Freddie and her entourage with a nod of the head and then pointed to the party room, indicating that he’d meet them shortly.

The group walked over the scuffed plank floor to the glass-paneled door that separated the main dining room from the new party room. As they stood outside the room waiting for Gerry to join them, Freddie peered through the glass panes.

Green, white, and red bunting festooned the walls, and black and white photos of scenes from Italy mounted on poster board sat on black wrought iron easels and were displayed throughout the room. That afternoon while Irma had sat with Anastasia while the toddler napped, Freddie and Gerry, as well as Bernie and Dave Weber, their senior bartender, had joined her in decorating the party room for the San Giuseppe Festa that would benefit the Don Enzo Mission Rehabilitation Center.

As Gerry had stood on a ladder stringing Italian flag garland above the mirror behind the small bar set up in the party room’s corner, he stared down at Freddie, who was sitting on a bar stool wrapping silverware with green, white, and red napkins. My mother is probably rolling over in her grave. He shook his head. Decorating the bar with Italian decorations.

Why is that? Freddie asked.

I don’t think we ever had an Italian celebration of any kind in the bar, he said. Can you think of anything, Dave?

Dave looked up at Gerry as he fed him more of the garland. As far as I can remember, no. Only St. Patrick’s Day and Half-Way to St. Patrick’s Day celebrations and the occasional Steelers and Penguins celebration. He squinted and then said, "Unless you count the time when the Vatican Splendors exhibit was in town, and we put spaghetti on the menu to commemorate the occasion."

Nah, that doesn’t count. That was church related. She’d never dream of hosting an Italian event, Gerry said. She was snobbishly Irish.

Didn’t she like Italians? Freddie asked.

I don’t think it was a matter of not liking Italians. My mom got along fine with everyone, but back when she was growing up, people in Pittsburgh stayed in their own neighborhoods. The Irish kept with the Irish, the Italians with the Italians and Polish with the Polish, etc. Back then, it was odd to marry outside of your ethnic group, Gerry said.

It was kind of like when we grew up. I didn’t know any blacks or would have ever dreamed of dating a black girl. Now, no one thinks a thing about— Dave cringed and froze. I’m so sorry, Freddie. I didn’t mean—

No offense taken. She knew Dave. He had a heart of gold, but she knew many people, especially those who were older, did not understand how the races could intermingle. And although Freddie wanted to feel superior, that she was some social pioneer for having given birth to a biracial child, she had not chosen Anastasia’s black father for any noble reason. It had been because she needed a fix, and her body was all that she had to trade. Anastasia had been the receipt of that transaction.

Freddie touched the little circular necklace that had Anastasia’s name stamped on it. She loved Anastasia. If it weren’t for getting pregnant with her, she may still be a junkie or worse be dead by now. Love for her unborn baby had compelled her to enter rehab. Bob, God bless him, had sent her to rehab two other times before, but each time she’d she gotten out and relapsed. Until she found out that she was pregnant, she’d had no reason to live and clean herself up. Anastasia was her lifeline out of addiction. Yet, because her baby looked so different from her, with her caramel-colored skin, dark curly hair, and amber eyes, her presence served as a constant reminder for Freddie of her past. It had only been in the last few months that she’d come to make peace with that and had come to see Anastasia’s different skin color, hair, and eyes as a reminder of where Freddie’s life had been, and it kept her from taking her sobriety for granted.

Remember, how Peg would argue with Vito, our old mailman? Gerry asked. Vito grew up in Canonsburg and knew Perry Como. He loved him and used to tell Peg that he was a better singer than Frank Sinatra.

What? Janetta said as she strode into the bar carrying an enormous plaster statue of St. Joseph. She set it on the nearest pub table and put her hands on either side of the figure’s head. "Don’t listen to this, San Giuseppe. That’s blasphemy. Everyone know that Francis Albert Sinatra is the best ever."

Now, as Freddie sized up the crowd in the party room, she spied the St. Joseph statue on the buffet table. Holding a wooden staff that had sprouted white lilies, his face looked unaffected and placid—exactly how she did not feel.

Dave saw her scoping out the scene, waved, and came out of the party room, greeting all the women with a kiss on their cheeks.

How’s it going in there? asked Janetta.

The place looks fabulous, he said. Everyone is raving over the food, and all the tickets on sale at the door are gone. We are sold out for your big night! he said giving Freddie’s shoulders a squeeze.

It’s not my night, Dave,