by Susan Wiggs
“What, and spoil the surprise?”
Blazing anger stung her. “Is that all I am? A prank you’re pulling on your parents?”
“Aw, come on, Rosa. These days, everything I do gets at them. I can’t please them.”
She noticed he didn’t deny it. “You set me up, Alex,” she said between gritted teeth. “I don’t belong here, and you knew it all along.”
“That’s bull,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You have every right to be here. I don’t know why you’re so paranoid about being at a stupid party.”
Before she could reply, two girls approached them. Hollis Underwood, Rosa remembered, and Portia Van Deusen. The dog trainer and the one with the hots for Alex. Hollis looked chic in a gown patterned with stylized black poodles around the hem. Portia was in pure white, debutante style.
“Hello, Alexander,” Hollis said, then turned to Rosa. “I don’t remember your name.”
“That’s Rosa,” Portia informed her. “You know, the pizza girl.”
“Excuse us.” In the blink of an eye, Alex managed to slip his arm behind her waist, send a dismissive smile to the girls and steer Rosa out on the dance floor.
She should have been grateful, but instead she felt a dull thud of panic knocking in her gut as she looked around the ballroom. Dancing with him was only a reprieve. The whole evening was going to be a series of awkward encounters and veiled insults. Even her red strapless gown, which had seemed so perfect just a short time ago, branded her with bad taste. She wanted to sink out of existence. She wanted to melt down between the cracks in the parquet floor.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alex, gazing down at her.
“I look like a painted fire hydrant.”
“You look hot.”
“You’re such an idiot. If you need to thumb your nose at your parents, that’s your business. You shouldn’t have used me to do it.”
“I didn’t use you. I have no idea why you’d think that.”
“Now you’re treating me like an idiot. You knew, Alex. You wanted to see your mom have a cow at her event, so you brought a townie as your date. Is that why you’re dating me?” Rosa felt the icy burn of tears in her eyes, but she blinked fast and conquered them. “Is that what you’ve been doing all summer?”
He stopped dancing, right there in the middle of the floor. He tightened his grip on her, perhaps sensing she was inches from running away. He pinned her with his stare. “Where the hell is all this coming from?”
“From the fact that you didn’t tell your parents I was coming and you didn’t tell me not to go strapless and you—”
He touched his fingers to her lips. “My God, Rosa. I had no idea you were so insecure.”
Neither did I.
“And you have no reason to be,” he said. “You belong here. Right here with me.”
She shut her eyes briefly, then looked up at him.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” Somehow she managed to summon up a smile. “Let’s keep dancing.”
And they did. And for a few seconds Rosa forgot herself and had a wonderful time. But mostly, she felt so awkward she wanted to scream. A boy named Brandon Davis danced with her, grinning as he said, “I heard there was some local talent around here.”
“Talent?”
“You got any girlfriends?” His hand slipped downward. Rosa pushed him away so hard that he stumbled.
“You creep,” she said.
He laughed, but there was an edge in his voice. “Ooh. Boobs and a mouth.”
At that, it was Rosa’s turn to laugh, and that was how Alex found her.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
She laughed harder and hoped the tears of mirth wouldn’t ruin her makeup. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Just dandy.”
After that, things improved. Brandon Davis had done her a huge favor. He had made her realize that there was nothing special about this crowd. Like any other roomful of people, they were everything: Petty, generous, insecure, gregarious, mean, kind...and in spite of her misfit status, she liked it. She liked the elegant setting and the discreet waitstaff, the heaviness of a crystal glass in her hand and even the congregation of valets outside, smoking cigarettes and telling jokes to pass the time. She took in everything around her, right down to the smallest detail. She noticed the quality of linens on the tables, the sound system, the enormous vases of flowers, even the arrangement of canapés on the platters of servers circulating through the crowd.
She sampled several bites and kept her expression bland. But Alex knew her too well.
“You hate the food,” he said.
“No, it’s really—”
“That’s okay. I hate the food, too.”
“I thought it was just me.”
He slipped his arm around her waist. She noticed his mother watching them with laser-beam eyes, the ever-present martini in hand. Next to her stood a stout, balding man. “Who’s that man with your mother?” she asked.
“Some lawyer. I think his name’s Milton Banks.”
“Is she in trouble?”
Alex frowned. “What?”
“People don’t have lawyers unless they’re in trouble.”
“Sure, they do. My folks have lots of lawyers. So does the company. I think their job is to keep us out of trouble.” His mother polished off her drink and took another from the tray of a passing waiter.
“Let’s get some air,” said Alex. He led the way through the French doors to a flagstone patio surrounded by a low stone wall.
Groups of people congregated here, and their conversation floated gently on the breeze. Lights glittered from boats moored at the yacht club marina, casting a glow upon the water lapping up against the shore.
Rosa discreetly wrapped a paper napkin around her canapé—a dry affair of puff pastry and greasy smoked salmon—and deposited it in a wastebasket. She wasn’t discreet enough; Alex noticed.
“Too bad about the food.”
“I bet it cost an arm and a leg, too. Boy, these people would probably kill for a piece of pizza right now.” Before any important gathering or holiday, her mother used to work on the food for days. Rosa would stand on a stepstool at the counter beside her, shaping meatballs or cutting dough. In the summer, she and Mamma would wrap paper-thin slices of prosciutto around melon balls and serve them on toothpicks. There was nothing wrong with keeping food simple.
“What do you say we get out of here?” asked Alex.
“Won’t your parents expect you to stick around?”
“This is for their crowd, not mine.” He looked around the patio area at the elegant people, sipping drinks and making small talk. “Once we’re at Brown, I’m thinking the parties will get better.”
At Brown. An invisible thrill went through her. In the fall they would be in a whole new world. On that venerable, leaf-strewn campus, the sense that they came from two different places would simply melt away. How amazing that was to her. To be in a place where it made no difference if you were rich or poor, an immigrant’s daughter or a descendant of the founding fathers.
“If the parties don’t get better,” she said, “I’m going to have to rethink college.”
Before leaving, she sought out the Montgomerys and thanked them. Mrs. M’s disdain was nothing new to Rosa. She had always been disapproving, only tolerating Rosa at Alex’s firm insistence. When Rosa and Alex were little, his mother used to worry that he would be lured into doing something dangerous to his health. Now that they were college-bound, she looked just as worried.
Get over it, lady, Rosa wanted to say. Instead she said, “Congratulations on this event. I know the art museum is going to be so grateful.”
Mrs. Montgomery looked startled by the comment. “A thriving art collection is gr
atitude enough.”
Rosa smiled, but deep down she couldn’t help but think about how much all this money could benefit cancer research. The world needed art, too, she supposed.
“Thank you for having me,” Rosa said.
“You’re welcome, my dear.”
I’m so sure, thought Rosa.
She wanted to thank Mr. Montgomery, too, but he was surrounded by well-dressed people who all seemed to be vying for his attention.
“Your dad sure has a lot of friends,” said Rosa.
“He makes them ungodly amounts of money.”
“He must be really smart.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed as he watched his father, so smooth and impeccable in his tuxedo, with his martini. “His clients were rich to start with. What would really be smart is if he could make a poor man rich.”
“If there was an easy way to do that, everyone would be wealthy.” She regarded him thoughtfully. The tension between Alex and his father was a tangible force. “Which is definitely not a bad thing.”
“Just because something’s hard doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be tried.”
She looped her arm through his. “I think that was a triple negative. Let’s go.”
Alex escorted her outside and sent for the car. “Well,” he said under his breath. “That sucked.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep in a giggle. With a curiously adult smoothness, he tipped the valet and slid into the driver’s seat. Once the doors were closed, he said, “I can’t stand valet parking.”
“Why not?”
“It’s stupid unless you’re disabled or something, which I’m not.”
Guys didn’t like other guys being in charge of their cars, she reflected.
“Where are we going, Alex?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You don’t have to entertain me,” she said.
“I know. But you’re too pretty to take home.”
She nearly melted into a puddle on the floor. In high school, she’d never had a steady boyfriend and her friends often asked her why. She didn’t really know the answer until now. She was waiting for Alex.
He headed into Newport, where Thames Street teemed with tourists and glittering restaurants and shop windows. The whole area was filled with strolling couples, and jazz music drifted from clubs or open air decks. He found a parking spot and hurried to open the door for her. “You’re even too pretty for this,” he said, “but it’s the best I can do.”
“I love you,” she said, before she lost her nerve. She stood up and faced him, her back pressed against the car. “I really do, Alex. I love you.”
For a moment he just stared at her. She couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. He looked either like someone who had been kneed in the groin, or who had just won the lottery.
“Is it that shocking?” she asked, beginning to regret her admission.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
“Well, I can’t help it. I wanted to tell you. You don’t have to...” Her voice trailed off. She was at a complete loss.
“Don’t have to what?”
Now she was in trouble. Me and my big mouth, she thought. Suddenly she was fighting tears. Oh, that’s swell, she scolded herself. First throw your love at him and then burst into tears. That’s got to be every guy’s dream.
He was looking at her with that endearing crooked grin that reminded her so much of the young Alex. But she still didn’t know what he was thinking.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she managed to say in a husky voice. “I mean, just because I said that doesn’t mean you have to say it back to me.”
“No, I don’t have to say it back.” He cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand, caught a renegade tear with his thumb. “I wish to God I’d been the one to say it first.”
And just like that, all of Rosa’s fears and insecurities slid away on a warm tide. “Really?”
“I’ve always loved you, Rosa, from the very first moment I met you. I think I knew it back then, even though I had no idea what to do about it. But now...” He bent down and kissed her long and deeply. Then he came up for air and added, “Now, I do.”
twenty-seven
On Labor Day weekend, Rosa invited Alex to the annual picnic of Mario’s Flying Pizza, which Mario hosted for his workers, friends, family and guests. Employees took turns keeping the restaurant open that Monday, but Rosa had the entire day off. Mario seemed to understand that this was a special period for her. In a week, she would set off for Providence and college.
The event took place at Roger Wheeler State Beach, and it had grown to accommodate well over a hundred people. Rosa promised Alex he would not have the same problems with the food that they’d experienced at his country club.
She found her father in the garage, working on his truck. “Hey, Pop,” she said to the propped-up hood.
He emerged from beneath the hood. “I hope you’re not gonna need the truck today,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “The clutch keeps going out.”
“Alex is driving me to the picnic.”
Pop scowled as he sprayed the rag with solvent. “What’s he want to go to Mario’s picnic for? It’s not his crowd.”
“Alex doesn’t have a crowd.” Rosa was instinctively cautious when discussing Alex with her father. She wasn’t quite sure why. “He gets along with everyone.”
Despite that assurance, her first glimpse of him when he showed up made her uneasy. He was dressed as though he’d stepped from a J. Crew catalog, in khaki shorts and a crisp blue shirt with the cuffs rolled back. He looked so...WASPy.
“What?” he asked.
“People wear really casual clothes to this picnic, Alex.” She gestured at her shorts and Flying Pizza T-shirt.
“Who cares? You make such a big deal about stuff like this, Rosa. Why is that?”
She flushed. “I have no idea. Come and help me finish up the ciabatta bruschetta.”
As they put sprigs of basil on the appetizers, he stole one from the tray. “That’s about the best thing I ever ate.”
“Really?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then you’re in for a treat today.” She hugged him hard. Her father chose that moment to walk through the back door. She practically jumped away from Alex as she spun around. “Hi, Pop.”
“Hello, Mr. Capoletti.” Alex’s ears turned bright red.
Pop nodded. “Alexander.”
The phone rang and Pop picked up the handset. “I’ll see you there,” he said and then answered the phone. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and turned away.
One of his clients, Rosa thought. “We should go,” she said hastily, wrapping the tray with plastic. “Are you ready?”
As they drove to the state park, she wished she could find a way to make Pop and Alex like each other. It was important to her. They were important to her. And so were the people who jammed the picnic area, she realized as Alex parked in one of the few remaining spots.
On the smooth, tree-shaded lawn donated by the Winslow Knights of Columbus, a group of older men played a serious match of bocce balls. Working together under the oblong picnic shelter, women laid out the feast while their husbands grilled Italian sausages so spicy the aroma made Rosa’s mouth water at a hundred paces. Children raced through the surf while their parents watched.
Rosa felt a rush of love for this world, this rich place of grandmothers who spoke only Italian, women who lived to feed people and men who grew loud and boisterous and competitive for no apparent reason except that they were men. For the first time, she actually felt a pang of apprehension about leaving.
“You ready?” she said brightly to Alex.
“Sure.”
Pop arrived on his bicycle and le
aned it against a tree. He probably hadn’t finished fixing the truck, then. He waved to Rosa, then headed over to the bocce ball court and was greeted loudly and heartily.
Alex stuck out like a white-bandaged sore thumb amid the guys in their black jeans and muscle shirts. It was the Sharks versus the Jets, but Alex had only one on his side. As Rosa led the way to the pavilion, she pretended not to see a group of her school friends eyeing them.
“Hey, Rosa,” said Paulie diCarlo, refusing to be ignored. “We’re having a game of flag football.”
Rosa put her hand on Alex’s arm. “You don’t need to—”
“I don’t mind,” said Alex, then turned to Rosa. “How about you?”
“Okay,” she said, sending Paulie a look of defiance. “Let’s go.”
“One team takes their shirts off, the other leaves them on,” said Paulie. “I vote Rosa is on the shirts-off team.”
“In your dreams,” she said.
His gaze gave her the once-over. “You guessed it.”
“Go shampoo your brain, Paulie,” she said, then lowered her voice to warn Alex. “You know they’ll play target practice with you.”
He grinned. “They’re going to need some luck.”
Alex played as hard as he’d promised. And true to Rosa’s warning, the ball drilled right at him time and time again. He managed to catch most of the passes, giving the opposing team multiple opportunities to attack. Even from a distance, Rosa could hear their grunts on impact as Alex was tackled, the whoosh of wind being knocked out of his lungs. The third time it happened, she decided to say something.
“Paulie, this is supposed to be flag football.”
“It’s fine.” Alex peeled himself up off the ground and shoved his flag back into the waistband of his shorts. He gave as good as he got, elbowing and shouldering a tortuous path toward the goal line, earning a small measure of grudging respect from some of Rosa’s friends.
The game didn’t end; it was declared over by Nona Fiore, calling everyone to eat. There was a stampede to the food—panzanella with tomatoes and bread, every conceivable variety of pasta, grilled sausages, fresh fish roasted in foil, Napoleon pastries and reginatta made with creamy half-melted ice cream. The older people drank Chianti from juice glasses and spoke Italian among themselves. Every once in a while, Rosa heard them mention quel ragazzo; Alex was being discussed. She wondered what was so wrong, that he couldn’t simply be welcomed and accepted by the people she loved.