“Ah, there is something Mrs. Castone desires.”
Calla kissed her husband’s lips, his eyes, his cheeks, his neck, and his hands. As they undressed, she said Don’t peek! for old times’ sake, but they laughed, which was more important than anything that had come before or after their vows. Nicky lifted his wife off the ground and carried her to their bed under the stars.
Calla pulled Nicky close, thinking he belonged there, that he always had.
Nicky wanted to make up for all the time they had lost, that he had squandered, living a different life without her. He had found his Beatrice; she had emerged from the pages of Tales from Shakespeare in a cloud of gold satin and now she was his. It had been so obvious that he hadn’t seen it. That night he vowed never to leave her, and she believed him. Calla made some promises to Nicky too, ones she would keep all of her life. Destiny had snuck up on them, claimed their hearts, secured their souls, and flown them as close to the moon that night as the heights of Borelli’s Theater would allow. Calla Borelli was no meltaway, she was a keeper. And Nicky Castone? He was an orphan no longer. He would never be alone again.
*
Hortense Mooney almost got off at the wrong stop on the cross-town. Out of habit, she was going to cross on Chestnut as she had done all those years for work, but today she had business on the other side of Broad.
She adjusted the collar on her Nettie Rosenstein coat, which she had bought at a trunk show, knowing she needed a good cloth coat for her business meetings. Using the window outside Joella’s Bakery as a mirror, she pulled the brim of her cloche hat just so over her eyes, exactly as the saleslady had demonstrated.
She took a deep breath when she walked under the dazzling red, white, and green awning of the Pronto Taxi & Limousine Service at 113 Fitzwater. Mike Palazzini knew how to make an entrance on his shop; he had flair, that was for sure.
Hortense pushed the entry door open, stepping into a waiting area. To her right was a floor-to-ceiling glass window; to her left, a long red patent-leather bench. Beyond the glass was a fleet of cabs in a garage three times as large as Palazzini’s. Hortense squinted, and noticed a lift, where a team of mechanics was working on a car elevated in mid-air. This was a first-class operation—not that Hortense was surprised.
“Mrs. Mooney!” Mike Palazzini entered the waiting area from the door that connected it to the garage.
“Mr. Palazzini, it’s been a long time.”
“I was young.” Mike clucked. “I miss being young.”
“We all do.”
“You haven’t changed.” Mike Palazzini was sharply dressed in a navy blazer, white slacks, a blue-and-white striped shirt, and camel suede loafers. “How have you been?”
“Busy.”
“My brother keeps you hopping.”
“I don’t work there anymore.”
“What did he do?”
“Oh, no, it was nothing like that. I had an opportunity to start my own business.”
“No kidding.”
“All my years with you paid off. I make spaghetti sauce. I have a deal with the Oldfield company.”
“You must be rich.”
Hortense lowered her voice. “I didn’t buy this hat on lay-away.”
“Congratulations! Why not? This is America. Why can’t a dispatcher become a mogul?”
“Don’t forget I was also a Western Union telegraph operator.”
“That was after I left.”
“That’s right.”
“Why did my brother put that in the garage? It never made any sense to me.”
“When Mrs. Palazzini sent all four boys off to the war, she vowed that she would never answer the door if an officer came with the worst news. She wanted to get the news before they did, so she asked her husband to put in the telegraph office.”
“And they all came home.”
“That’s right.”
“You know I lost my Richard.”
“Terrible. I’m sorry.”
“What can you do?”
“Nothing. Not a thing. Just pray.” Hortense patted his shoulder.
Mike found his pressed handkerchief in his pocket. He wiped away a few tears. “I cry about that kid every day. Here I go. The old waterworks.”
“You always will, you know.”
“I guess.”
“I came to see you about your brother.”
“Is he all right?”
“I think so.”
“Is he sick?”
“The man is in a constant state of dyspepsia, but I don’t think that’ll kill him.”
“So he’s okay.”
“I think you should take him off the island.” Of all the Italian expressions Hortense had learned from the Palazzini family over the years, the one that remained with her was the concept of the island, the place you put people when you had a falling-out and weren’t speaking to them.
“He put himself on the island,” Mike said defensively. “He doesn’t talk to me. I’m the one who’s on the island.”
“Well, whoever put the other on the island, it doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that there’s a wedding reception, and I’ve been asked to deliver this invitation to you and Nancy and your boys and their wives.” Hortense reached into her purse and gave the envelope to Mike, who opened it.
“These are tickets to a show.”
“Partly. There’s a party after the play. That’s the wedding part. Now, if you need more, you just use my name at the box office at Borelli’s, and they’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Nicky got married?”
“Yes, he did.”
“But he’s on the television in New York City.”
“Yes, but he’s come back to Philly. Married a local girl. Calla Borelli.”
“Is there a nuptial mass?”
“They were married at the church by the priest in the chapel.”
“Oh, one of those.” Mike whistled. “Shotgun.”
“No, not one of those. They just didn’t want a big fanfare.”
“Who doesn’t want a big fanfare?” Mike scratched his head. “Does my brother know I’ve been invited?”
“This is from Nicky.”
“I always felt bad for that kid. No father. No mother.”
“He’s done just fine.”
“Jo mothered him, I guess.” Mike shrugged.
“Nicky had many mothers.” Hortense stood to go. “I hope you can make it.”
“I’ll ask Nancy. She’s the boss.”
Mike watched Hortense as she walked out onto Fitzwater. The bus pulled up, and she climbed aboard. He shook his head. Mrs. Mooney had worked for Dom too long; she had picked up his tight ways. Why would a titan of business take the bus? She should have her own car and driver. Maybe he’d ask her about that. Maybe she hadn’t thought about it. Maybe Pronto could provide such a service. Why not?
*