He opened the drawer where he kept his socks, moved the last clean pairs aside, and pulled from the bottom the telegram that had been awaiting him. On the floor. Overlooked. Stepped over by both him and Cecilia in their fervor to get at one another.
WASHINGTON DC DECEMBER 27 1959
LEAVE CUT SHORT YOU ARE NEEDED URGENTLY REPORT FOR DUTY JANUARY 2 SHIP DEPARTS NYC JANUARY 3 SEE YOU ON THE OPAL
From the admiral himself. Pride had swelled before Aldo realized the implications. He didn’t have until the end of January to woo and win Cecilia the way he should have years ago. There would be no apartment in New York to whisk her to once she’d left her old, forced life behind, no time to deal with the formalities, the frustrations. There was only a new life for them both, the one that should have been had circumstances not tricked them into believing otherwise.
He set the telegram on the dressertop, pulled from the drawer a white envelope. Inside, an itinerary—a ship bound for Lisbon, then a train to Barcelona, where, somehow or another, he’d be waiting for her. The travel agent in Fair Lawn, an abutting town grown big enough for Aldo to hope Cecilia’s name rang no bells, had been so eager to make the arrangements for him, especially since he handed over every last dime he had, in advance. She practically swooned over the story about the love of his life, the leave cut short, and the wedding they would have somewhere in Spain the moment she arrived. A man in uniform was rarely suspect, especially when he had clear blue eyes, foppish dark hair, and a slightly crooked smile plastered on his love-stricken face. She’d taken the information, made the arrangements, and handed him the itinerary.
“I’ll have the tickets for you in a couple of days,” the woman had said. “Make sure she has a passport.”
Aldo said she did, and hoped he wasn’t lying.
He finished dressing and left his lonely, still-sweaty room. He couldn’t pick up the tickets until after five o’clock. The travel agent was working overtime, just for him. Maybe Tressa and her friends would have forgone the Meyer Brothers tearoom in favor of the one in Les Fontaines. Fresh out of Cecilia’s arms, he had no interest in flirting, but the prospect of some company to kill the hours until he put his plan into effect appealed.
Standing at the entrance, scanning the cluster of women and girls far smaller in number than they had been before Christmas, Aldo didn’t see his sister. As an American man of his age, and military to boot, popping into the tearoom of the hotel on his own wasn’t without scandal, but Aldo actually liked tea. He especially enjoyed the Russian tea cakes at Les Fontaines. Confections made of flour, sugar, nuts, and lots of butter if his palate guessed correctly, so simple they crossed back into elegant. Despite and because of the cold feelings between the United States and the Soviets, there would be a fair amount of friendship-making attempts in the anonymous Mediterranean Sea. Perfecting the sweet staple of every Russian soldier’s childhood would surely win some points.
“Al, over here.” A masculine voice, and vaguely familiar. Aldo searched for the man to go with it and found Enzo Parisi, hand raised and beckoning. An uncomfortable sting shivered up his spine, settled in his gut, and turned it. How long had Enzo been there? Long enough to see Cecilia leave? Aldo tugged on his jacket lapels. He was an officer in the United States Navy. Tea in a posh hotel with his lover’s husband could not faze him. He joined the man at his table.
“Hello, Mr. Parisi.”
“Enzo, please. Sit.”
Aldo complied. “What brings you to Les Fontaines?”
Enzo’s smile never wavered, but his glance was long. “I met your sister here for tea just before Christmas,” he said at last, “and wanted to come back. I was hoping to run into her, in fact. A man having tea by himself in a fancy hotel is suspect, but I really like tea, and their cookies.”
“You and me both.” Aldo laughed without meaning to. “I’m thinking of stealing their recipe for Russian tea cakes.”
“Are those the crumbly ones with the powdered sugar and nuts?”
“Yup. I’m not a pastry chef, but I think I could duplicate them.”
Enzo signaled the white-tuxedoed waiter. “A plate of your Russian tea cakes and a pot of”—he looked to Aldo—“Darjeeling black?”
“I’m game.”
Nodding to the waiter, Enzo turned that movie-star smile back on Aldo. “Looking forward to this evening?”
“Sure.” Aldo shrugged. “Last party was a hoot.”
“My in-laws know how to entertain. Tell me, as a chef, what do you think of Maria’s culinary efforts?”
Culinary efforts? Aldo bit the inside of his cheek. Was Enzo talking worldly man to worldly man? Or being condescending? “She’s a fine cook,” Aldo answered. “I enjoyed everything I ate.”
“I understand you’re quite the accomplished man with food.” Enzo altered the topic without batting an eyelash. “Tressa never tires of telling us all how talented you are.”
“She’s my kid sister.” Aldo tried to smile. “She has to say nice things. I’ve never cooked for her.”
“That’s a shame.”
The waiter returned with a pot of fragrant tea and the cookies Aldo’s mouth would have watered for if he weren’t sitting across the table from the man whose wife he’d recently fucked. Play it cool. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Aldo snatched a cookie from the plate while the waiter poured. Yes, flour, sugar, butter, nuts, and vanilla. Maybe a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon.
“What made you join the navy?” Enzo blew across the surface of his tea. “At loose ends?”
“I had no real prospects other than short-order cook at a local joint. The navy seemed like a good option.”
“Any regrets?”
“Plenty of them.” Aldo sipped the tea, too hot, and pretended it didn’t burn. “But I’m glad I did. Why?”
Enzo shrugged. “Just curious,” he said. “I think we all wanted to be in the military when we were kids.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. I was seven when my uncles and cousins went to fight overseas. Old enough to know it was important, too young to understand the horror. I saw them as heroes, every one of them. Especially the ones who never made it back home. I know differently now, but back then, all I wanted was to join the army.”
“Not the navy or air force?”
“They were army. I wanted the same. Besides, I’m not all too keen on flying. You?”
“I’ve flown a few times. Never jumped out of a plane, though.”
“Lucky you.”
The men chatted amiably, and yet Aldo couldn’t shake the feeling that Enzo was coiled tight and ready to spring. So how long do you plan on fucking my wife? The question was there, in between every word they spoke. It was in the other man’s bright eyes, in the tilt of his charming smile. Aldo loosened his tie. Heat trickled out of his clothes to steam his face. Or maybe it was the tea grown tepid in his cup. Or maybe it was his imagination running away with him.
“I guess I should get going,” Enzo said, looking at his watch. “My wife will castrate me if I’m late to the party.”
“My sister says arriving late is fashionable.”
“Not when it’s Dominic Giancami’s party and you’re married to his daughter.” Enzo rose to his feet, extended a hand. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“See you later.”
The man’s handshake was firm (too firm?). His smile (sneer?) crinkled the corners of his eyes. Aldo dropped back into his chair, slumped and suddenly exhausted. Enzo tipped the hatcheck girl, donned his overcoat, and, hat in hand, left the tearoom.
The last, surreal hour of his life played in Aldo’s head. He’d gone from Cecilia’s arms to Enzo’s charming clutches with only a shower in between. He felt dirty and raw and, for the first time, guilty as hell. He went back to his room, tossed his uniform jacket on the bed still Cecilia-rumpled, Cecilia-scented. Would Enzo know his wife’s scent in the room? Had he smelled her on him? Aldo stripped out of his clothes, left them where they lay, and got back into t
he shower. Hot water scalded. He leaned his head to the tiled wall and let it burn. Cecilia was his. She had been from the moment they met. Enzo’s part in their triangle was unfortunate, but had nothing to do with them. It had been determined by his parents and hers, long before Aldo Wronski ever knew Cecilia Giancami existed.
That makes Cecilia his.
No! It didn’t. An agreement between rival families bound hands in marriage; it didn’t inspire love. That, Cecilia had given Aldo, mind, body, and soul. Whatever she felt for the man she married and the children he gave her had nothing over the forever she promised him. Nothing.
Turning off the water, Aldo stood as he was, water dripping from his hair, his body. Cecilia was his. She loved him. He loved her. That was all that mattered. No husband, no children, no life that didn’t include him could change what had been written in the stars. To fear otherwise was a sacrilege to the only religion Aldo had ever ascribed to.
Toweling off hurt, so he patted himself dry. The silk shirt Tressa had bought him clung to the damp pain left on his skin. The jacket pulled Aldo’s shoulders down. He squared them, a valiant effort, and triumphant. Enzo Parisi was a good-looking man. Charming, rich, intelligent. But Aldo wasn’t so bad, himself. A navy man of many travels, a man of culinary art and adventure, dressed in evening attire not quite the tuxedo he’d worn to the Christmas party, but elegant and formal enough for New Year’s Eve. He looked dashing, if he did say so himself. Tressa had impeccable taste. It was going to be a job to keep all her new friends off of him the night long, but he would even if he had to hide in a closet.
Aldo plucked the itinerary and the telegram from the drawer, tucked them into the inside breast pocket of his suit. He’d pick up the tickets and give everything to her tonight, at the magical stroke of midnight. Not only a new year suspended between yesterday and tomorrow, but a new decade hovering between then and now. Powerful magic, indeed.
Tomorrow, he would leave Paterson. Not even Tressa knew. But Cecilia would. She’d read the telegram, the tickets, and in a month, they’d be together in Barcelona. The romance of it all took his own breath away. Cecilia could be no less affected.
Chapter 35
Paterson, New Jersey
December 31, 1959
Cecilia
Tears froze on Cecilia’s cheeks before she could wipe them away. It hadn’t been so cold when she left the house, left her husband and children playing on the floor in her parents’ parlor. Christmas toys—blocks and dolls and another new baby carriage for Patsy—everywhere. When she and her brothers were little, toys weren’t allowed anywhere but the playroom. Such rules didn’t apply to grandchildren meant for spoiling. No rules at all, for them.
Enzo hadn’t said a word as she hurried for the door, her coat already half on, her hat askew. He’d only smiled and waved, made baby Frankie wave his tiny hand. She’d almost taken her coat off again. Almost. But Patsy chose that moment to grab her daddy’s attention, giving Cecilia permission to duck and run.
Patsy. And Frankie. Tears froze anew. The rapid click of her heels on the pavement echoed the beat of her broken heart. Head down and hands shoved into her pockets, Cecilia picked up her pace. It wasn’t fair. It had never been fair. Not to her or to Aldo, not to Enzo, who could have married someone worthy of his love instead. She’d never been worthy of that abundance, that purity, not from day one. It wasn’t even her fault. She’d fallen in love. Girls had been doing that forever. Boys, too. Aldo had fallen in love with her. And so had Enzo.
A scream formed in her throat. Cecilia swallowed it down. The fantasy of having both men played incessantly through her mind. It was so easy a solution, so right. She could love them both, have them both, and not have to choose which of her children got to be with their father. Damn society for forbidding such a thing. Damn possessive, masculine egos. If Enzo said he wanted Tressa—which he did, Cecilia knew full well—she’d share him. Wouldn’t she?
Hurrying up the steps of her parents’ home on Derrom Avenue, Cecilia stumbled. She caught herself, her breath, and pushed open the door. “Enzo? Mama?”
“In here,” her mother called softly. Cecilia followed the tinny sound of kiddie music to the parlor. Mama sat in the wingback chair with Frankie in her arms. Patsy, chin on fists and little legs swinging, watched Howdy Doody on the new twenty-one-inch television set Daddy got Mama for Christmas.
“Where’s Enzo?” Cecilia asked quietly, taking her baby into her arms. He stirred only to suckle in his sleep. So perfect, her son. Cecilia’s heart swelled.
“He went out,” Maria answered. “He didn’t say where to. Where have you been?”
“Just met some friends.”
“What friends?”
“Some of the girls.” Cecilia kissed Frankie’s soft cheek. She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump rising. “Why?”
“You’re spending an awful lot of time with young ladies you couldn’t give the time of day to most of the year.”
“It’s the holiday season, time to live it up a little.”
“You’re living it up an awful lot more than a little, eh?”
Cecilia lifted her head. Mama’s mouth was a thin, grim line, a countenance that had been stiffening Cecilia’s spine since her earliest memories. Placing Frankie in the folding crib set up near the radiator, she gathered her composure. Patsy, engrossed with puppets and cowboy songs, hadn’t yet acknowledged her mother’s presence and likely wouldn’t until the show was over.
“I’d like a word with you, Cecilia Marie.”
The second name. Thank God she hadn’t added the confirmation name, too. Still, her spine stiffened and her fingers trembled. Following her mother into the hallway between parlor and kitchen, Cecilia took shallow, even breaths.
“What is it, Mama? Was Pasty a good girl?”
“Of course she was.” Maria waved her off. “Come. The children are fine. I’ll make us coffee.”
Coffee, not tea. Maria had no interest in tea. She brewed her coffee strong, from dark-roast beans, the way her own mama did, and made no apologies for it.
Cecilia grabbed the tin of Christmas cookies from the pantry shelf and pried off the lid. Slightly stale, but still sugary and chocolaty and gooey in turns. She took a sugared Christmas tree out and bit. It crumbled in her mouth.
“You keep that up and we won’t be able to get you into another slinky dress next year.”
“You saying I’m getting fat?”
“I’m saying you’re not as slim as you used to be.”
“I’ve never been slim, Mama. Men like my curves.”
“Men, eh? Not Enzo?”
Cecilia’s cheeks burned. She took another cookie from the tin. “What did you want to talk about? Not my figure or choice of words, I’m sure.”
“Can’t a mother enjoy a chat with a daughter she doesn’t see nearly enough of since she moved all the way down to Princeton?”
“I’ve lived there five years. You were all for it. And we see you all the time. I make sure of it.”
Maria plugged in the percolator, brushed coffee grounds from the counter into her hand, and dumped them back into the can. Taking a cookie for herself, she eyed it carefully before biting. “Andrea makes better sugar cookies than Dolores. Dee doesn’t sift her flour. Makes a big difference.”
The aroma of coffee wafted; the percolator bubbled. Cecilia checked the clock, still another fifteen minutes of Howdy Doody to keep Patsy occupied. After that, she’d be able to escape whatever had her mother’s face grim despite the superior cookie and chat with her supposedly missed daughter.
“Is all the cooking for tonight done, then?” she asked.
Maria met her gaze. “I’m having it catered.”
Cecilia barked laughter. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not kidding. I did all the showing off I needed to at Christmas. I’m getting older. I can’t keep that up forever.”
Older? Yes. Though her hair was still the jet black it had been all her life, it
was done at the hairdresser’s now. Smile lines around Maria’s eyes remained even at rest. How old could she be? Cecilia used to know, but didn’t now.
“You know, Ceci, I was young once, like you.”
“I know that. I remember.”
“You can’t remember me at that age. You were a baby. My first. My only daughter. I had all of you kids before I was twenty-five.”
“Is that why you stopped?” Cecilia asked. “Too many, too fast.”
Maria’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed. “You remember Trudy.”
Cecilia looked away.
“Of course you do. Everyone does, even though she’s been gone for years. I’ll never live her down. Ever.” Maria lunged for Cecilia’s hand across the table. She held it way too hard. “When a man cheats, it’s his wife’s reputation that’s ruined. When a woman does, she ruins her own, but it’s far worse for her husband. No one respects a man who can’t keep his wife in line.”
“In line?” Cecilia pulled her hand away. “Are women dogs now?”
Maria shook her head, her mouth working words that wouldn’t cooperate. “I learned the hard way”—she managed to get out—“just what women are in this world. You think you’re modern and different, but you’re not. You’re the same as the rest of us. The only power over your own life you’ll ever have is through your husband. Trust me on this one.”
Bile rose from her churning stomach. Cecilia took another cookie, ate it so fast she choked. Maria leaped to her feet, pounding her daughter’s back.
“I’m fine, Mama.” Cecilia held up her hand. “Stop.”
But Maria put her arms around her, held her close. “I did the best I could for you and you’ve been happy no matter what else you’ve been. I know love. I know how it can tear up a woman’s soul. It’s big. So big. Consuming. But it flares and then it fades, and what you’re left with is all the hurt it leaves behind.”
“Mama.” Cecilia pried her off. “What are you talking about?”
The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses Page 29