Vivian was confident Edward was not having as good a time entertaining Dominic Tomasetti. She’d been practically giddy when Dominic introduced himself. His accent was thick, and his English much less understandable than Maria’s, and she knew Edward would be gritting his teeth throughout the evening about it. Maria had no accent, having come to the United States and learned English at the age of four, but if you’d told Vivian that, she wouldn’t have believed you. The telephone company had a policy to only hire fluent English speakers, but Vivian still thought Maria had a pretty heavy Italian accent. Now that they’d spent a couple of hours talking, though, she hardly noticed it.
Maria told her how Dominic had come over to the United States just five years ago and worked at the Wooster Rubber Company, which had finally found its footing again after all the war rationing. His older brother Vincenzo (now Vincent) had settled in Wooster just before the stock market crash, and secured a job driving the delivery truck for City Dairy. Vincenzo Tomasetti had set his cap for Maria DiLucca, the prettiest, curviest girl on his milk route, and Maria admitted she’d gone on several dates with him.
“I gave him a little bit of encouragement,” she admitted. “Just a little bit.”
A little bit because she wanted to ride in the milk truck, and a little bit because she was flattered by all his attention. But then Dominic had shown up and, “That was it for me,” she explained.
Vivian listened to the story. Boy, did she love a good love story. Her face was tilted toward Maria, one hand held her chin, and the other hand held a china cup with the last few drops of coffee. As Maria described how she and Dominic fell for each other, Vivian began to think about Edward. Without any awareness, she flashed an angry look in his direction. She slammed the coffee cup down on its saucer, and a tiny chip flew back toward the wall.
“Vivian.” Maria’s voice had risen a little, and Vivian snapped her attention back to her guest and forced a wide-eyed grin as Maria said, “You’ve been at Bell so long, haven’t you? How long has it been?”
“Oh”—Vivian let out a long breath and waved her free hand as she set the saucer and cup on the side table—“it feels like forever.”
“I feel lucky to have been hired,” Maria offered. “After the Building & Loan embezzlement”—she paused and looked at the floor—“we were in a bit of trouble.”
“Oh, dear.” Vivian’s attention shifted completely away from Edward with this abrupt (and possibly intentional) change of subject. She felt a sudden and strange urge to put an arm around Maria Tomasetti’s shoulder. Instead, she looked at her hands in her lap.
The whole town’d been singing J. Ellis Reed’s praises when he’d told his bank customers he’d be reimbursing them. Everyone called him Wooster’s very own George Bailey. His grandkids even made him a sash and a fancy pole to carry. (Charlotte had called it a “scepter” and said it was made of papier-mâché.) Vivian knew by now the bank hadn’t reimbursed everyone who’d lost money, and she had little moments of guilt about it, especially about people she knew were worse off than her own family. That wasn’t fair. But, as her mother was always saying, “Life isn’t fair.” She frowned for a brief second, then looked up and directly into Maria’s eyes.
“Well”—her tone was matter-of-fact and she gave a nod of her head as she spoke—“whatever brought you to Bell, we’re sure glad you’re there.”
Vivian was surprised to realize she really meant it.
Maria’s expression went from pained to grateful and she reached forward, taking both of Vivian’s hands in her own.
“Vivian,” she said with some seriousness. “I should tell you something.”
Vivian’s breath caught in her chest and her fingers squeezed Maria’s hands out of sheer anxiety. This was going to be it. Maria had heard about the rumor. She hadn’t even thought of someone like Maria being the one to hear the gossip. She hadn’t really thought of Maria as being part of Wooster. Her heart pounded in her chest and her smile froze in place, just as it had in the grocery store with Helen Harper.
“The sauce recipe I gave you.” Maria’s eyes darted over to her husband, who was staring at a spot on the wall behind Edward’s head, as Edward silently sipped his coffee. “The recipe is not the recipe I use for my own family.” Her expression was sheepish.
“Hmm?” Vivian wondered why Maria was talking about spaghetti sauce. These Italians sure did have a jumpy way about their conversations.
“I am so very sorry. We take our food very seriously, and so the recipe we give to other people is not the good recipe. Or, not as good as our own.”
“Oh, well, garsh,” Vivian said, still trying to figure out what Maria meant.
She hadn’t heard the rumor, then. Vivian’s palms had begun to sweat and she pulled her hands away and put them in her lap. She remembered asking Maria for a good spaghetti sauce recipe, during a lull at the switchboard one afternoon, thinking what good luck it was that she knew an authentic Italian.
“You have been so kind to us, and welcomed us into your home.” Maria smiled, and crossed her own hands in her lap. She glanced up at the ceiling, as if unsure where to look at that moment. A small spider was ambling across the expanse of white, and seemed to be looking for something that wasn’t there. Maria raised her eyebrows and tipped her head from side to side in a playful motion.
“You have earned the real Tomasetti recipe, if you would like it.”
Vivian didn’t know what to think. Her mouth had dropped open a bit as Maria stared at the ceiling, for some reason, and then gave a little shake of her head. Vivian had dropped the useless anxiety about the rumor and a weed of embarrassment had rooted itself in her belly. Maria’s cute little head tilt sure wasn’t going to change that. It was almost as bad as Laura Eagan’s baby talk. Maria reached out and grasped one of Vivian’s sweaty hands and gave it a squeeze. Vivian forced a laugh that, instead of being a charming hostess giggle, came out sounding like a donkey braying in the barnyard.
“Well, yes.” She cleared her throat to get rid of the donkey braying. “I would.”
She felt the color rising in her cheeks. She also felt foolish and offended, but was still a hostess, goddammit. This was why she had trouble with people. They always seemed to be keeping secrets from you. Just like her mother’d always said.
“Come to the kitchen. I keep my recipe cards in a box. I think I have a few blank ones. Maybe I could also get the recipe for the cake, what did you call it? Pandora?”
Edward watched from the window as the Tomasettis left the house and climbed into the rusted, early-model Ford pickup truck, Dominic helping his wife into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side. As soon as they’d driven away, he turned to Vivian and launched into one of his low-growl tirades. Vivian thought, We don’t need a dog, we’ve got Edward. She responded by showing him her back and disappearing into the kitchen.
“How dare you,” and “Guineas” and “my house” were barked out in repetition as Vivian circled the dishrag over the dishes in the sink. The volume of Edward’s tirades never registered above a five on the dial, but that was almost worse than if they’d come at full blast. The anger and venom didn’t have anywhere to go, just stopped themselves up inside Edward, or else trickled out of his mouth in little bits of invisible hateful slime.
Vivian scrubbed at the dried ketchup Stroganoff, the thickened glops just as stubborn as the smirk she refused to wipe from her lips. Edward stayed put in his chair in the living room, griping and swearing in her direction. Judging from the way Dominic Tomasetti helped Maria into the car, and how he helped her down the steps, Vivian guessed he probably never swore at her. She knew people. A couple of lovebirds, those two. She could just picture them, walking all lovey-dovey, arm in arm down the street, cooing sweet nothings. The Tomasettis respected each other.
“Ha,” she scoffed, and slapped the dishrag over the faucet. Respect. She fished around the cooling dishwater for stray silverware and measuring spoons. Respect meant not
lying to someone about something, now, didn’t it? Vivian pulled the plug from the drain, leaned against the sink, and pursed her lips as she wiped her hands on the dry dish towel and thought about Maria’s lie about the spaghetti sauce. Now, there were lies and there were LIES. Maria’d at least told her the truth tonight.
“Hmph.” Vivian snapped the dish towel through the air in the direction of the living room.
The music from the record player grew louder above her and Vivian knew Charlotte was trying to drown out the sounds of her father’s low snarling anger. Vivian hung the dish towel over its iron bar, whipped off her apron, and stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Maybe tonight would be the night she would finally confront him. If he pushed her, she might. But as she removed her rooster brooch and placed it back into her jewelry box, she remembered her brilliant idea. The one about finding information. Get into it, get under it, poke around in the corners. Find every little bit.
Chapter 14
Not being found had become a way of life for Flora Parker and Gilbert Ogden, who were now considered “criminals” and “at large” following the embezzlement of the Wayne Building & Loan last June. And Flora would’ve agreed. Canada was indeed large. It was so odd to her that it was a completely separate country from the United States. She had been expecting something much different. But the people were the same, the language was the same, except for maybe a few extra vowels here and there, the cars and houses and buildings and streets were the same. The only thing really different was the money. The downside was that they’d lost about three thousand dollars with the exchange rate, but that was a small price to pay for a little more safety.
Flora remembered the day she and Gilbert fled the bank as the most exciting day of her entire life. She had hardly been able to button her blouse in front of the mirror that morning, with her fingers shaking the way they were. She had nearly stabbed herself in the head with her hatpin. It was then she’d had to give herself a little pep talk, because she would have to work the whole day knowing what she knew, and if she entered the bank that morning with her fingers shaking and her voice all jittery, she would have given the whole thing away.
Her handbag was heavier than usual, holding eight used makeup compacts packed with vegetable shortening, which Gilbert had said they might need to grease any of the locks on the drawers, boxes, or vault. If anyone peeked inside the pocketbook they’d just assume she had a slight obsession with makeup, which she really did not. As her husband, Bill, drove her to work she took deep, slow breaths and told herself over and over in her head, You can do this, Flora. You can do this.
After saying goodbye to Bill, and closing the car door, every move she made was done slowly and deliberately. From the time she inserted the key into the lock of the bank’s back door, to the phony, cheerful smile she gave Mr. Hunsicker when he arrived (forty-five minutes after everyone else who worked at the bank), to the friendly “Have a nice weekend!”s and “See you Monday!”s she said to everyone at the end of the day. She would never know if they had a nice weekend or not, and she wouldn’t see them Monday, or any day after that, and the lie squished and sloshed in her stomach a little. For the most part Flora had kept to herself at work, but everyone who worked with her would have said they really liked her. But that had always been a large part of her daily existence, making sure she was likable.
The internal anxiety and thrilling terror she felt were coupled with the relief that she wouldn’t have to keep up the charade of romancing her revolting boss. It was a role within a role and she had done such a convincing job of it, she just knew she could have made it big on the stage, or even in Hollywood. Mr. Hunsicker had to believe she fancied him, but wouldn’t dare betray her husband. And no one else was supposed to know or even suspect any of it. Gilbert had made it clear that was terribly important. She had put on quite a production for that purpose, and could have given Barbara Stanwyck a run for her money. Barbara in Double Indemnity, though, not Barbara in Christmas in Connecticut. “Duplicitous” was the word she had been rolling over and over in her head while she worked. It helped put her in the proper frame of mind, and it helped her nail her performance.
Boyd Hunsicker was the kind of man Flora had spent much of her life trying to avoid. Overbearing, overweight, and overly confident, with a blustering manner of speaking, he punctuated his words with jabs to the air from an unlit cigar, because his doctor told him he shouldn’t smoke. Flora winced as his inflated waistline brushed against the back of her chair, and wondered if there was anything else his doctor had told him he shouldn’t do.
In the beginning, he simply used to watch her with an uncomfortable familiarity. His eyes traveled over the features of her face and the contours of her body, as if he were memorizing them. Flora broke a great many pencils out of burgeoning fear and anger, and tried to ward off the violated feeling that his prolonged and inappropriate stares provoked in her.
Over time Mr. Hunsicker grew bolder, feeling more secure in his position of power over her. “That husband of yours, Phil, what’s he do?” he had said. “Bill,” Flora would answer in a measured, patient tone, “his name is Bill.” She was sure Mr. Hunsicker knew that her husband’s name was Bill, and that what Bill “did” was split his time making deliveries for Barrett’s Flower Shop and apprenticing as an electrician at Rambo & Long.
Mr. Hunsicker knew that her husband (Bill) didn’t make enough money to support them, and knew that she needed to keep her job at the Building & Loan. Women with few options were always the best targets. In the privacy of his office, when she was taking dictation for him, he would recite a few lines regarding bank business, but then interject that her skirt that day “really got him going,” and then almost in the same breath ask her, “How’s Phil doing?” After a while she’d stopped correcting him, and let him call her husband by the wrong name. He seemed to enjoy it.
He took a grotesque interest in her marriage, which was almost as troubling as his interest in her body. It was all she could do to keep from gagging when he touched her. A fat swollen hand on her elbow, an intentional brush of his arm against her backside as she was leaving the office. He stank of whiskey and charbroiled steak, regardless of the time of day. But it was all for the greater good, and their future, and she stifled her revulsion and played her part admirably. She never rebuffed him directly, and twisted her suppressed gags into flirtatious giggles, making it seem like he was moving in the right direction, and that it would only be a matter of time. Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson had nothing on Flora Parker.
Gilbert Ogden had a sixth sense for Flora’s internal distress, and always made it a point to visit her desk after she had been in Hunsicker’s office with the door closed. In the slightest of movements, unnoticed by anyone else, he would place a reassuring hand over hers as it rested on the desktop, and then smooth his suspenders, straighten his bow tie, and return to his seat behind the counter, where he’d chew on his fingernails, because he was nervous, too. Flora loved him for his efforts to comfort her, but she would still rush home and scrub her body raw in a hot shower to try to remove any and all lingering traces of Boyd Hunsicker.
Flora had never been prouder of Gilbert, who had planned the entire embezzlement and getaway almost single-handedly. She had seen how everyone at the bank had underestimated him, employees and customers alike, and how Mr. Hunsicker had bullied him. It was infuriating to watch someone as wealthy and powerful as Boyd Hunsicker berate and demean someone like Gilbert. He was much smarter and much stronger than everyone gave him credit for. His small stature belied a big brain and an even bigger heart. And Flora knew he would do anything for her.
The newspapers had gone crazy for the story of the Wayne Building & Loan robbery and the escape, with word reaching beyond the state of Ohio and up across the border into Canada. The outrage at the audacity of the crime, the mind-boggling amount of money that had been stolen, and some of the reactions of Wooster’s citizens were detailed in dozens of publications in the region. T
he reactions of Wooster’s citizens included a shudder-inducing snippet from Flora’s next-door neighbors, who described the volcanic rage of her cuckolded husband as he had burst from their house, shotgun in hand, jumped into his car, and taken off in hot pursuit of his cheating, not to mention outlaw, wife. “There was smoke coming out Bill Parker’s ears. Genuine smoke, honest to God.”
No one could believe Gilbert had pulled it off. Even with the outright disbelief splashed across the front pages of the papers, and the calculated brilliance required to make such a clean getaway, Gilbert was adorably humble about the entire thing. He would wave a dismissive hand at any praise she gave him, and then somehow turn the focus around, laud her contributions to the operation, and ask her if she was coping all right.
There were moments when Flora grew wistful about leaving Wooster. She knew they could never go back, and she had grown fond of the tidy little town and its community. Gilbert had said they probably shouldn’t even chance going back over the border into the U.S., much less all the way down to Ohio. Canada was their new home, Toronto more specifically, and with the money they had, it would at least be a comfortable life there, if just the tiniest bit colder. He had smiled when he said that. “Just the tiniest bit colder, Flora.”
He knew she hated the cold, and had bought her a full-length mink coat from Eaton’s on Queen Street in October when the temperatures began to drop. It had been his first really expensive gift to her. They had been careful not to flash their cash around after exchanging modest amounts into Canadian currency. Just a little at a time, and never at the same bank twice. They rented a modest three-bedroom, red-brick bay-and-gable house in a quieter neighborhood of the city, and spent money only on necessities. Flora did hate the cold, but what bothered her more was the size of Toronto. “It’s too big,” she had told Gilbert, even though he had chosen a more intimate neighborhood, rather than renting something right in the city center. “It’s truly unwieldy, Gil.”
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