Sorry to disappoint everybody, but this isn't a guide that's applicable to every situation. What I had planned was specifically designed to solve my own conundrum.

I returned to St Christopher's the evening of the same day. Miss Ellis had called my parents and told them what an excellent moral example I was setting for the rest of the class and what I wanted to do exactly. When she had reached that second point of her explanation, my father had started ranting like a raving rhino, and my mother had fretted, clutching her lace blouse and saying things like: “But isn't it... you know, a bit... unsafe there?”

Whereupon Miss Ellis had assured my parents that Father Elliot would take the very best care of me. What? Oh yes, the man in charge of St Christopher's was a priest.

That did it! The prospect of me willingly going off to spend time in the company of a priest and thereby hopefully being redeemed of my manifold sins was too enticing for my parents to resist. Dad had still grumbled a bit, but my mother had come over to me, ruffled my hair, and said how proud she was of her little Angel. Yuk!

I almost felt guilty. Almost. But when I jumped from the bus and saw the dark brick facade of the shelter before me, my guilt vanished in a burst of anticipation. I had hardly taken two steps when the front door flew open and Debby marched out, her thin arms wide open. “Ange! I knew you'd come back! I knew it! Well, actually I didn't, but I damn well hoped you would.” She was wearing an old tweed jacket, jeans and sandals. Obviously, with her nonexistent salary, she had an even more limited wardrobe than I with two ultra-catholic parents as fashion police.

This time, she didn't turn around and vanish into the building again, but picked me up and gave me a fierce hug, which I returned promptly. I could see that Debby was someone I could easily be friends with, even if she was twice my age and looked like a red hen that had spent her last vacation in a thunderstorm.

“So you've come to join the regulars!” She let me down again and gestured to the door. “Come on. I'll introduce you to Father Elliot. He's in charge of St Christopher's. Meaning that he gives spiritual advice, while I cook the meals and make the beds.”

A bit apprehensively, I followed Debby into the dingy entry hall. Priests had never been my favorite type of people. They always wanted to help you repent, even if you didn't think you actually had anything to repent for. Which left me feeling profoundly guilty for not feeling more guilty.

We went past the chairs in the entry hall. Until my eyes fell on his chair and saw that it was empty, I hadn't realized that I had hoped for it not to be. What was wrong with me? Why was I so obsessed with the guy? Could I be... no! That was just ridiculous. Shaking my head to rid myself of these confused thoughts, I followed Debby into the kitchen slash dining room. A little old man with remnants of white hair sticking up over each ear was standing between the pots and pans. He was holding a large meat cleaver in his hand, a quizzical look on his face.

“Father Elliot.” Debby hurried forward and snatched the deadly instrument from the old man's hand. “Give me that, will you?”

“Of course, of course, my dear,” he said, blinking, as his eyes slowly focused on her. “I didn't know we had cutlery that fine at St Christopher's. Please tell me, who is the benefactor to whom we owe these fine kitchen instruments?”

“You approved payment for the new cutlery out of our annual funds yourself four months ago, Father Elliot. Don't you remember?”

“Oh yes. Now that you mention it I seem to recall something of the kind.... my, my, how time flies...”

“Father Elliot?” Debby grasped the good father by the elbow before either his attention or he himself could wander off again. “May I introduce you to Angela MacAllen? She was here with her class the other day and has decided to volunteer.”

“O, how wonderful.” Father Elliot turned, fumbling with his robe, and held out his hand, which I promptly shook. “It's always heartening to know that the spirit of charity and caring for your fellow men... em, and women of course – hasn't died out. Very heartening.” He squinted at me again. “Debby, dear, do you happen to know where my glasses are? I thought I had put them in my breast pocket, and now I can't find them anywhere. And it doesn't seem quite polite to greet the newest member of our little family without being able to see her face properly.”

“That's no problem, Father,” I said, smiling brightly. This priest would, I thought, probably not be that bad. “I'll be hanging out here a lot. You'll have plenty of opportunity to stare at me.”

“Good. That's good. Well, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I have received a letter from my deacon to which I must compose a reply.”

“Of course, Father Elliot,” Debby replied, hard pressed to keep a straight face. “I'll see you later.”

“Yes, yes.” And he meandered away.

Debby turned back to me. “You'll have plenty of opportunity to stare at me?” The admonishment in her voice would have been more convincing if she hadn't had to work so hard to keep from laughing.

“What?” I grinned up at her. “He didn't even notice. Remember what you said about having fun?”

“I hate people who throw my own words back at me,” Debby mumbled.

I nodded. “Me too. Can you hate me while you show me the ropes?”

“I suppose. So what would you rather do? Cook, clean or make beds?”

“Cook.”

“Ha!” Debby stuck the meat cleaver back into a wooden knife block. “Everybody says that. Nobody wants to clean up after hobos. Nobody believes me when I tell them that they don't stink like zoo animals. And I ought to know, I worked at San Diego Zoo for a year and a half. I can tell you, the armpits of those gorillas...”

“Hold it right there! I intend to cook later this evening, and that isn't exactly compatible with puking.”

“And why exactly do you think I should assign you KP duty? Unlike with the Army, it's a privileged position at St Christopher's.”

“Because you hate me. And because I'm going to be your friend. And because I have an ulterior motive for wanting to cook.”

“An ulterior motive, hmm? That's always good. What is it?”

“My mother.”

Debby raised an eyebrow. “She wants you to cook, does she?”

“No. In fact she does all the cooking at home herself. So I need to learn how to cook as fast as possible, If I want any of my surviving taste buds to live past Christmas.”

That earned me a smile. “Okay, that's a valid reason. What do you think of stew?”

“Great, as long as it's not Irish.”

“Then we are of one mind. Come, we can get the water boiling. The others should be here soon enough.”

I held up the bag I'd brought with me.

“Is there anywhere I can put this?”

“Is there anything valuable inside?”

“That depends. How valuable do you think unfinished homework is?”

Debby nodded. “Put it in the corner over there. I'll guarantee nobody will touch it. Then come and I'll show you where we keep the pots.”

Yesterday, my head had been so full of new stuff that I had hardly paid any attention to the people at St Christopher's. Today, I could watch them trickle in slowly, and had the added benefit of Debby's commentary.

“You see that thin guy over there? That's Hank. He may not look much, but he's the only one who knows how to repair the dishwasher, darn piece of junk. And that guy with 4 fingers on his left hand is Danny. All I can say about him is: don't come too close while he's chopping meat. These three are Valerie, Leila and Beth...”

And so it went on and on, until my head was spinning, from Beth to Orlando and Geraldine over Gomez to Hildebrand. Last but not least came George, the beefy restaurant chef, who had joined the St Christopher volunteers as master of the kitchen to atone for the sins of his youth (he had worked at McDonald’s for three weeks during summer break). George was of particular interest to me. Somehow I would have to find a way to educe his fabled family recipes from him, which Debby assured me, were worth their cook's weight in Gold.

“Everybody?” Debby clapped her hands and silenced the motley crowd assembled in the dining room. “This,” she shoved me forward energetically, “is Angela. She's decided to join us.”

“In what capacity?” Someone called from the back, “Dessert?”

“Shut your face, sleazeball,” I snapped. Hanging around Jen certainly had its advantages – such as never being short on dirty words.

“I think that answers your question, Matt.” Debby quickly pulled me back before I could say anything else. “I'll be showing her the ropes. We're making stew today, so you all should know what to do. If you think you can be lazy just because I'm not breathing down your necks this wonderful evening, think again, or I'll gut you and have your innards served for dinner. Well? Start working, what are you waiting for?”

Everybody moved to their posts, and we got to work.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Debby kept me always busy, and I was prodigiously grateful for that. If not for chopping celery and peeling potatoes, it would have been nigh on impossible to keep from wondering when he was going to co... damn, I was doing it anyway!

No denying it, my eyes kept flitting towards the doorway, but Giacomo was nowhere to be seen. Many of the homeless had come early, an hour or even two before the meal would be served, probably to enjoy the warmth of the shelter. Now that the sun was down, it would fast be getting cold outside.

Almost everybody came early, yet not him. One more puzzling fact. If he had been a Canadian immigrant, I could have understood him taking a stroll in the cold, but an Italian? My knowledge of Geography was about as comprehensive as my expertise on marine biology or particle physics, but I was pretty sure Italy was a warm place – if the holiday advertisements were anything to judge by.

“All right.” Debby shooed me away from the massive pots in which the stew was bubbling. “No offense, but I think I'll take care of carrying the pots.”

“None taken,” I replied. “I can't even reach the handles. I'll go and see if I can get some of my homework done. Call me when you need me.”

“Sure, sure.”

I got my bag and trotted over to a free place at one of the yet empty tables in a corner of the room. There, I unpacked my stuff and sighed as I stared down at the mass of uncompleted homework. Well, I might as well get some work done while I was here. I'd have to do it sooner or later.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

I'd like to say that I was so engrossed in my homework that I didn't hear him approach. It would sound so nice and virtuous. The truth is I was focused on not having a panic attack. I also was thinking about how, if I had a time machine, I would use it to go back in time and strangle that Pythagoras guy. Couldn't he have made his theorem a bit easier?

I was also contemplating exchanging the exercise book on my knees for a considerably more exciting book about a western hero and a south American beauty which I had tucked away in my backpack. So I had reasons enough not to notice him until a voice not two feet away from me said: “Don't I know you?”

I jumped, almost dropping my exercise book, and looked up. A worn leather jacket was blocking my sight. So I looked up some more, although I already knew who it was. I had known the moment I had had heard his voice. That voice that would be fit to sing Operas with...

“Hi”, I said, smiling up at him. Smiling didn't take much effort when I was talking to him, I noticed. “Yeah, I believe we've met. The nosy girl with the pasta. Remember me?”

And, to my intense surprise, he nodded and smiled. A smile as dazzling as any I had seen in toothpaste commercials, and a hundred times as earnest and charming. The white of his teeth was a stark contrast against his suntanned skin and mahogany hair.

“I'm not sure I remember her,” He sighed, pretending to think hard. “I remember a very nice girl who gave me advice on where to improve my mind. But she wasn't nosy. Are you sure that we're talking about the same person?”

I sucked in a quick breath, I just couldn't help it. “Yes.” My response was a little unsteady. “Quite sure.”

It would probably have been better to hold my breath instead – because with the air came his scent. Yesterday, I probably would have said that Giacomo mostly smelled of tomato sauce. Now that I wasn't carrying two plates of pasta around with me, I had to correct this unforgivable mistake:

He smelled of leather, with a touch of smoke and most of all, masculinity. And not from using perfume, either. There wouldn't have been any reason to do so, anyway. Hell, the guy was his own perfume! I took another breather and tried to slow my heart down. Slow breathing was supposed to slow one's heartbeat, right? In this instance, it didn't seem to be working.

“Is something wrong?”

'Get a grip,' I shouted at myself. Giacomo was looking down at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

“No. Why would you think so?”

“It's just that you were staring at me with your mouth open.”

“Oh... I... I was just thinking about a math problem. I'm doing my homework,” I said, holding up my exercise book. “See?”

“Yes, I do... forgive me, but I don't know your name.”

I held out my hand. Why suddenly so formal, I chided myself – only to realize that I had held out my hand so that he would have to take it. My mind flashed back to that moment yesterday, when my hand had briefly been in his, and I felt my face heat.

“I'm Ange.” Yes, he took my hand. His was just as warm and strong as I remembered. I felt a thin scar on his palm. “You're Giacomo, aren't you?”

He let go of my hand as if it were a snake's head and his eyes were suddenly narrowed with suspicion. “What?” he growled. “How do you know my name?!”

“Someone mentioned it to me,” I said, taken aback. “What's the matter with you? Whenever I ask you a question you act like I tried to shoot you.”

He pressed his lips together tightly, but the sudden aggressiveness had left his eyes. “I don't like it when people ask questions about me.”

“Well, get used to it,” I mumbled, staring down at my homework. “Here in America, we call it small talk.”

For a moment, he just stood there. Then he suddenly did something I would never have expected: He sat down beside me. It took all my self-control to continue to look at my homework and not stare at his mahogany mane or beautiful face beside me.

“All right,” he said, pleasantly enough. “Let's talk. But small please, not too big. I think I can get used to small talk, but I don't like big talk.” He scratched his chin, looking for subject, a look of puzzlement in his eyes. I'd never seen puzzlement looking that sexy. “Ange...” He tested the name like it was a strange tropical fruit he wasn't entirely sure was not poisonous. “That's an interesting name. I've never heard it before.”

“It's short for Angela.”

“And why would anyone want to shorten it?”, he asked, his brow furrowed. “Angela means 'Angel' in my native tongue, as in many others. Did you know that?”

“I've been told so,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Don't be annoyed. It is a beautiful name, mia Angela.”

“D-do you really think so?” Staring down at my homework was becoming harder and harder. Of course I'd been often told my name was beautiful – by my parents. Big deal. They chose it, didn't they? Being told my name was beautiful by someone else, by someone I thought beautiful, was an exhilarating feeling.

I shook my head, trying get a grip. What had come over me? My mission, I reminded myself, I was here on a mission. There was a mystery to be solved.

“So,” I said, working hard to make my voice light and teasing. “Now that I'm allowed to ask you a question without you ripping my head off, can you tell my why you aren't in school or college? Are you too silly?”

“Have you been told that you make really charming smalltalk?”

“That's a talent I've picked up from my best friend,” I retorted, peeking up at him with a grin.

“Some people don't have the money to pay for a good education.”

“That's no excuse. We have public schools here in America.”

“I know.”

He left it at that. But I didn't.

“So you are lazy,” I deduced.

Giacomo looked sideways – and down – at me. The expression on his gorgeous face was somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “I'm not lazy.”

“Then Debby was right. You are stupid.”

Annoyance seemed temporarily to win the upper hand. “My intellect has been the subject of gossip, has it?”

I held up an admonishing finger.

“Smalltalk, remember? No ripping heads off. Anyway, what's so terrible about being stupid? I am. I suck at math, I can't stand English, and don't even get me started on the rest.” I held up my my exercise book. “But at least I'm doing something about it.”

“And it looks like you're having so much success.” Smirking, he pointed at my chaotic scribbling which bore as much resemblance to math as the web of a black widow to the city map of San Francisco.

“Hey, I bet that I'm still smarter than you.”

“And what could I bet?” He spread his arms innocently. “I don't have a cent on me.”

How about that fabulous leather jacket of yours?

“I'm not old enough to bet money,” I said, tersely. “And I would be robbing you anyway. That wouldn't be fair.”

“You think so, do you?”

Now I had him where I wanted him.

“Yep.” Taking a deep breath, I said: “I bet you've got no idea for example... for example what the birthplace of Anaximander is!”

Giacomo snorted.

“That's easy. Miletus.”

A cold tingle ran down my spine. So it had really been him writing in that paper. Here this guy was sitting, for all the world like the worst riffraff imaginable... and yet, he could answer questions the answers to which even my history teacher would have had to look up, as though to him they were no more difficult than what number you get when you add 2 and 2. There was something more about Giacomo, something beneath the surface – something I was determined to discover.

“Lucky guess,” I mumbled.

“O really?”

“Of course. Do you want me to prove it to you? How about a little quiz to prove to me how smart you are?”

For a moment, he was silent. Than, suddenly, that radiant smile appeared on his face again, and before I could stop him, he picked up my exercise book. I tried to grab it, but he held me at a distance with one hand while flipping through it. “I'll do better than that,” he said, still smiling. “I'll tutor you.”

“What?”

His eyes were dancing with amusement. Good grief, how could it be that he was suddenly ten times as beautiful as before? He was suddenly... shining. Which left me more than a little tongue-tied.

“Never heard of tutoring before?” he chuckled. “Dio mio, Angela, that is a gap in your education.”

“Of course I know what tutoring is,” I snapped. “I accept. And I'll bet I'll end up teaching you something.”

“We'll see about that. Where should we meet?”

Meet? I was actually going to have to meet him? Somewhere else? Somewhere where nobody else was around? What had I gotten myself into? I couldn't do this! If my father found out, he'd kill me!

“How about Cafe Trieste?”, I said.