But I hadn’t a clue yet what I did want. At night, after my kids were settled in bed and my work organized for school the next day, I sometimes sat in my darkened bedroom looking out at the city. My room was in the front of the building now. Like the old ladies on the street who know everyone’s business because they sit at their windows all day watching the neighborhood as if it were a soap opera, I sat and watched late at night. The street had an emptiness then that echoed my own loneliness. The few people out and about were moving quickly in the cold, their footsteps and muffled voices bouncing off the brick facades of the buildings. I wondered if they were hurrying home or racing to the arms of a lover.
I was not moving at all. Frozen. Rooted. Behind a wall not of brick, but of ice.
Annette, emboldened by the success of the makeover she’d engineered, decided to push on to higher stakes. I thought she’d be content when she managed to entice me into getting a manicure regularly.
“The first thing people see will be your hands as you distribute their menus. Well-manicured nails reflect on the quality of the house. If you don’t believe me, ask your mother, who never misses an appointment with Bernadette up the street.”
I got my nails done—just a shaping and a coat of clear polish. But for Christmas, I picked out a deep burgundy to go with the velvet dress I was wearing to Christmas Eve dinner, and I stayed with that shade.
But Annette wasn’t satisfied.
“Now that you have a new look, it’s time for a new man.”
“No, it isn’t. I told you, I’m not ready.”
“Not ready to get married again, with that I concur. But you are certainly ready to enjoy life a little.”
“I enjoy my children. I enjoy my family. I enjoy my work.”
“That’s wonderful. Commendable for the Italian mother and daughter you are. But why, if I happen to be looking out my window late at night and glance across the street, do I see my cousin pensive and sad at her own window?”
“Are you spying on me?”
“Don’t deflect from the point I’m trying to make. Enjoying family life in its many Dante forms is all well and good. But there’s a piece missing from your life. Whether you believe this or not, Toni, you deserve the attention of a man. And it’s my next mission in life to find you one.”
“Don’t, Annette.”
“Nonsense. We’re not talking about the man. You’re right about that. It’s too soon. You’re too miserable to attract him.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“I am talking about injecting some lighthearted fun into your overly responsible existence. A movie date. Dinner at some place other than Paradiso with somebody whose meat you don’t have to cut.”
Annette reached out to her network and started setting me up on blind dates. The son of one of her father’s customers, who took me to Pier 4 for lobster and popovers and then expected a nightcap of sex while my children slept down the hall. I left him firmly at the door. A minor-league hockey player who appeared to have been rammed against the sideboards a few too many times and had difficulty carrying on a conversation that consisted of more than two or three words.
“Annette, I’m an art teacher. I read books. My idea of a good time is an exhibit at the MFA or a play at the Colony Theater.”
“Okay. I’m working on it.”
She found me an accountant and a stockbroker, both educated and well-groomed and totally boring. One talked only about himself, without a single question to me. Am I invisible? I asked myself. Or just a mirror reflecting back his glowing opinion of himself? The other was too inquisitive. I felt as if he had a mental checklist for the ideal woman as he questioned me about my life. When we got to how I felt about kids and I started describing the wonder and delight and physical exhaustion of being a mother to three unique beings, the questions stopped. It was clear he had no idea I’d been married before and had children; his eyes glazed over.
“I thought this was supposed to be a fun-filled romp for me, Annette. Frankly I’d rather have all my wisdom teeth pulled than go out on another date. I’m done. This is worse than being lonely.”
My mother had gotten back on her feet after Christmas and no longer needed me to do nightly hostessing at Paradiso, but I found I missed it. Manny had talked my parents into keeping the restaurant open when they went to Florida in January and he asked me if I’d fill in again. A few more weeks of turning outward instead of inward, on my feet and chatting with customers instead of sitting morosely by my window at night, sounded more than appealing. My cousin Vito’s teenage daughter Mira came over to watch the kids and I went back downstairs.
I discovered during my stint as hostess that I enjoyed the theatrical aspects of the restaurant business. Manny had understood that we were putting on a show every night and had been making changes at Paradiso ever since he got back from school. My parents had established the reputation of Paradiso with the quality of the food, but Manny was generating attention that was starting to draw a hipper crowd. It used to be rare for a neighborhood place like Paradiso to be significant enough for a restaurant critic to notice. I think most of the Boston food writers dismissed North End restaurants as nothing but tourist traps offering a list of standards—meatballs, sausage, eggplant parmigiano and lasagne—smothered in red sauce. We’d always presented a more varied menu, and our regulars knew that. Manny was finding ways to attract new customers who were looking for something adventurous. So word spread, the critics started coming around, and Manny and I wanted to put on a good show. I flirted with the men; I complimented the women.
“I love your earrings! They really set off your face.”
“Welcome to Paradiso! As Beatrice said to Dante, come sit awhile at my table. Enjoy your meal!”
I started bringing each table a small plate of tidbits to nibble on while they read the menu—olives, celery stuffed with Gorgonzola that had been mashed with olive oil and lemon juice, a couple of anchovies rolled around capers. On weekends, when the place was busiest and guests often had to wait, I brought them spiced nuts and chatted with them to make the time pass more quickly. I roamed the floor, making sure everyone was content. I’d grown up watching my mother welcome guests to the restaurant as if it were her dining room upstairs. She’d put her hand on someone’s shoulder as she stopped at a table. If she knew the people, she’d ask about the family. If she didn’t, she’d tell them they’d made a good choice in whatever they were eating.
“My favorite,” she’d say. “My mother’s recipe.”
One night, Peter Ricci showed up. I hadn’t seen him since I’d turned down his request to help at the community center.
I felt myself stiffening, the defenses going up, but I put on my hostess face and welcomed him.
“Happy New Year, Peter! How many in your party tonight?”
I continued my usual performance as the evening wore on, trying not to notice that Peter was watching me as I moved around the room. Probably sharing with his fellow guests, none of whom I recognized, the sad tale of my wasted potential. I forced myself to return to his table as their meal was winding down. I was gracious. I recommended the panna cotta for dessert. I kept talking so he couldn’t bring up art.
When they were leaving, he told his companions to go ahead, he’d catch up with them, and then he turned back to me.
Here it comes, I thought. He hasn’t given up yet, has he?
“It was great to see you tonight, Toni. I missed you the last time I was in. Uh, this may sound a little off the wall, but do you enjoy dance?”
Dance? Not, Have you created any lithographic images lately or etched a sheet of copper?
“What kind of dance?”
“Modern. I’ve got two tickets for the Nederlands Dans Theater at the Metropolitan Center next Thursday. Would you like to join me? I saw them in Europe last summer and found them compelling. I thought you might…”
I wasn’t quite sure where he was headed with his invitation. Warning bells deep in my brain were signaling tha
t any contact with Peter Ricci, no matter how unrelated to my lost talent, would not be a good thing for me. But instead of the self-assured master teacher, the in-your-face, knowledgeable professor, what I was seeing was a vulnerable adolescent asking me out on a date. To do something that actually appealed to me.
I said yes. My brother Mike agreed to host for me; my cousin Annette watched the kids.
The dance company was as compelling as Peter had promised—dramatic and thought-provoking. We walked back to the neighborhood after the performance, so caught up in conversation about what we’d seen that we ignored the cold.
When we got to Salem Street I noticed how red his nose was.
“Can I offer you a warm drink? I’m sure Manny still has some espresso or cappuccino in the kitchen.”
He accepted, and we went into the restaurant. The last table was being cleared and Mike had already gone upstairs to relieve Annette. I led Peter to a booth, then walked into the kitchen to get us some coffee.
Manny was sipping a glass of wine and about to dig into a plate of linguine carbonara. He was always famished at the end of the evening.
“How was your date with the art teacher?”
“Intriguing. Fine. Why do you ask?”
He smiled. “The guy’s been waiting for you for months. Every time he came in for dinner he asked about you. Showing up last week wasn’t a coincidence. I’d mentioned that you’d be working when Mom and Pop went to Florida.”
I threw a sugar packet at him. “You don’t need to be my matchmaker.”
“You had a good time, right?”
I left the kitchen with the coffee and a plate of biscotti.
Peter smiled as I slipped into the other side of the booth. I didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that his invitation hadn’t been spontaneous.
It had been years since I’d felt someone genuinely interested in me. For once, I took Annette’s advice and decided to enjoy it. Peter and I talked until the coffee grew cold, not about art but about life. His growing up in Rochester, New York, with a father who worked at the Kodak plant and a mother who was a hairdresser. The inspiration provided by a high school teacher that had propelled him to the Rhode Island School of Design.
I shared with him a condensed version of my life since graduating, sparing him the melodrama of the collapse of my marriage. I was still wary of tainting new friendships with my own misery.
“I was an asshole ten years ago to have criticized you for becoming a teacher,” he said.
That was unexpected. He went on.
“I’m a product myself of a wonderful teacher. I think I equated what I saw happening to you, your art, with your decision to teach. But, in fact, it was something else, not the teaching. You were shutting down emotionally. I don’t know what it was—and you don’t have to tell me—but it was still there when you came into the studio this summer.
“But you’ve changed since then. Not just physically—although, believe me, that’s been striking. I’ve watched you here at the restaurant. You’re vibrant. You cast a spell on people.”
That was when he leaned across the table to kiss me. It was soft and inviting and filled with longing. When he stopped, he looked at me, cupping my face in his hands.
“You’re an amazing woman, Toni.”
The lights went off in the kitchen. It was late. I reluctantly said good-night to Peter.
“I had a wonderful time. Especially our conversation.”
“Shall we continue it tomorrow?”
“I’m hostessing again. Why don’t you come by near closing time. I’ll ask Manny to whip us up a late supper.”
He kissed me in the vestibule before I went upstairs.
Mike was watching the Tonight Show on the couch with Vanessa sprawled across his chest. I gathered her gently into my arms and settled her in her crib, but she woke up. I wound up walking the floor with her to get her back to sleep, wondering what I’d been thinking when I opened myself up to Peter. I couldn’t afford to let a man into my life the way Peter Ricci seemed to want. The intimacy of our conversation that evening, despite my reticence, had been both satisfying and draining. I couldn’t imagine being able to sustain that. Not with everything that was pulling at me for attention—my children, my teaching, my responsibilities to my family.
When I finally got Vanessa to sleep, I crawled into bed and wrapped the comforter around me for warmth. I longed to have Peter beside me, holding me, making love to me. But at one in the morning, exhausted and already anticipating the start of another day—with kids to rouse and feed and get off to school, traffic to face, classes to teach—I realized that wasn’t going to be possible. Better to accept that now rather than make a mess later. I was afraid I’d be doing all the taking from Peter and have nothing to give in return.
The phone rang. I answered quickly so Vanessa wouldn’t wake up again.
“It’s Peter. I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. I just got to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I feel as if I left things unfinished.”
“Peter…” I wanted to stop him.
“I’m in a phone booth down the street. Can I come up?”
I sat up in bed. I told myself I should say no. I should say I can’t go any further.
“Yes.”
In the few minutes it took him to reach the building I opened the drawer in my night table and took out the new diaphragm Annette had encouraged me to get as part of my transformation. As with her other suggestions, I had protested at first. But my hand trembled when I took it out of the case. I felt both relieved to have it and in a state of joyful disbelief that I might actually need it. When the intercom rang, I tiptoed down the hall and buzzed him in, listening to his footsteps as he climbed the stairs.
He stepped inside the apartment, picked me up and carried me down the hall to my bedroom.
Bobby had stopped making love to me months before Vanessa was born. And before that, our lovemaking had been sporadic and more a physical release than an expression of love or even desire. I didn’t realize how much of my pleasure in sex had been deadened, wrapped in layers of neglect and abandonment. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be caressed and cherished. I thought I could live without passion. That night with Peter threw me off balance, opening a rift in the shell of protection I’d constructed. It exposed a need so raw and hungry that it frightened me.
He was an extraordinarily tender lover. When we got to the bedroom he sat on the side of the bed and I sat with my legs wrapped around him. At first, we simply rocked to a lullaby that emerged from our kisses and sighs. His kisses moved from my lips down my neck to the opening at the top of my nightgown. His hands moved down my back and slid the fabric up over my head. Once free, I lifted my arms to unzip his jacket and unbutton his shirt. I forgot about the chill in the room as he pulled me down and we lay facing each other, his bare chest against mine. I somehow managed to get the rest of his clothes off in a blur of movement, my mouth continuing to kiss him as my fingers released the five buttons on his jeans. Peter was nearly forty, but his body was lean and strong, cradling me with a fierce warmth. I responded to his exploration of my body with a ferocity of my own. It wasn’t a sweet reawakening of my long-dormant sexuality. Instead, it was explosive, driven, frenzied. We both seemed to be in a state of want that only the other could fill.
I didn’t know myself.
We finally collapsed, hearts beating wildly against each other, our breathing gradually subsiding into a steady, synchronized rhythm. We hadn’t spoken a single word since the phone call hours before. Talking had been superfluous. Our means of communication was tactile, the responses unfiltered by judgment or caution. Our lovemaking had been intemperate. Insatiable. And we clung to each other afterward, unable or unwilling to break the connection. I was trembling, and he held me tighter, gathering the covers around us as I had earlier, when I thought I’d come to terms with my loneliness.
We slept. Around five, the tenuous thread conn
ecting us broke when Vanessa began to cry. I groped for the nightgown shed with everything else I thought I knew about myself and went to my daughter. It was still dark. By the time I settled Vanessa, Peter was up and pulling on his jeans. We looked at each other across the room, an acknowledgment passing between us that what had happened during the night had been inexplicable, arising out of some unfulfilled hidden need neither of us had understood. Then we moved toward each other in an embrace.
“Thank you.” We both murmured it at the same time.
As much as we’d taken from the other, we’d also given.
And then he was gone.
I stood at the window and saw him cross the street and round the corner, heading toward the harbor.
I got through the first part of the day on autopilot, filling bowls with Cheerios, making peanut butter and banana sandwiches, packing Vanessa’s diaper bag and leaving her with Manny to drop off at my aunt Ida’s later in the morning. My makeup disguised the dark circles under my eyes, but not the haunted expression in my eyes.
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks, dear brother. Vanessa was up a couple of times during the night. She’ll probably sleep for a couple of hours now. I’ve got to get to work. See you tonight.”
I drifted more than once at school, feeling like an adolescent caught in the hazy euphoria of remembered passion. No wonder I’d sealed myself off from sex. It rendered me dysfunctional.
When I got back to the neighborhood I met the boys at their school and walked them to Aunt Ida’s. She was watching them for this last night before my parents got back from Florida.
“You don’t mind keeping them overnight? Fridays are always late for us.”
“It’s not a bother, honey. They’re good kids. We have fun, don’t we, guys?”
I kissed them all and walked down the street to my place to shower and change. I pulled out the red dress I’d bought in the fall with Annette. I put my hair up to accentuate the neckline of the dress, which bared my shoulders.
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