Part 51 (1/2)

Thinking of St. Monica's most devoted paris.h.i.+oner, I said, ”I didn't see the Widow Giacalona at the funeral. When is she coming back?”

”She ain't.” Lucky gave a heavy sigh. ”She likes it out there in Seattle. Says she's staying. She's done with this life. She ain't never coming back. And she don't ever wanna speak to me again. Ever Ever.”

”Oh, Lucky. I'm so sorry to hear that.” And after he had saved her life, too.

”Yeah. Well.” The old hit man shrugged. ”Love. Whaddya gonna do?”

We gazed up at St. Monica together, two brokenhearted souls seeking comfort . . . And a single tear rolled down the plaster saint's cheek.

”Lucky! Do you . . .” Do you . . .”

”Yeah. I see it!” His gruff voice was filled with awe.

I watched the tear roll all the way down the saint's face, and I continued staring in silent wonder, until the tender trickle of moisture had dried and evaporated.

”Your saint really does weep for the brokenhearted,” I said. ”I thought it was just . . .” I shook my head. ”You know.”

”Hey, kid, there's miracles everywhere,” Lucky said. ”You just gotta let your eyes be open to 'em.”

”Wow.” I was still brokenhearted about Lopez, but . . . ”I feel a little better.”

”Me, too,” Lucky said. ”Ain't life something?”

My cell phone rang, startling me. ”Sorry.” I pulled it out of my purse and glanced at the LCD panel. ”Oh, no no.”

”What is it?” Lucky asked in alarm.

”My mother!” How did she always do this? ”How does she know I'm in a church, kneeling before a Catholic saint, and crying because my would-be boyfriend just dumped me? How does she always know? know?”