“Not if I have a choice.”
Nicky bit into the sandwich and chewed slowly. The tender steak, warm cheese, and hot peppers were delicious, but he wasn’t enjoying the flavors. He was thinking about the possibility of never going back to the Borelli Theater again, and what that might mean to him, what that would do to him. He could imagine a life where he never drove a cab again, but he couldn’t imagine his life without Borelli’s.
“Nick, you take so long to eat.” Peachy had finished her sandwich and wiped her hands on the paper napkin. The camellia on her hat had slipped to the back of her head, and she looked like a little girl, all eyes, no chin, just longing and need in her face, with her head framed by a halo of pink organza. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked. “I went too far. Ma says I go too far and pile on. I piled on.”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t know, sometimes I can’t say anything right.” Her brown eyes filled like fish tanks. “I can’t do anything right either.”
“Come on. Don’t cry, Peachy.”
“All of a sudden I’m bereft.”
“Why?”
“Like I’m not supposed to say what I’m feeling. Like I’m supposed to hold it in.”
“I never want you to do that.”
“Good. Because I can’t. We’ve been together too long to start acting with each other.”
“You’re right.”
“Plus it will give me a migraine. And I don’t need that. I got enough to worry about.” She extended both of her hands to him. Her purse dangled from her thin wrist. “Come on. I gotta go to work early tomorrow.”
“Should we hop a bus? They let me take the bike onboard at night.”
“Nah, the air is good for us.” Peachy kissed Nicky lightly on the lips. “It’s swell. It’s fine. As long as we’re together.”
Nicky wrapped up the rest of his sandwich neatly and handed it to Peachy. She put it in her purse. He hopped on the bike and put up the kickstand. She slipped up onto the handlebars, and Nicky centered her between them. She gripped the handles, and as he began to pedal, he leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck.
*
Frank Arrigo drove slowly across the bridge because he wanted to make the evening with Calla last. She was just what he was looking for, a gutsy Italian girl from South Philly, younger than he but not silly. He loathed silly. She was pretty too, but not in the way that he’d be afraid to touch her. She didn’t seem to care about her hair, she just let it blow around. He liked that he could just leave the top down on his convertible. He liked that she ate everything on her plate and drank wine. She didn’t order drinks with paper umbrellas in them. If he had to bet, he’d guess that she drank beer when the weather was hot. Calla slid closer to him in the front seat and took his hand.
*
Nicky and Peachy sailed across the bridge on the walkway, two silhouettes in the dark as they passed Frank and Calla.
“Those poor souls on a bike,” Frank commented.
“What’s wrong with that?” Calla watched as the two figures turned off the bridge onto the river road.
“I don’t know. They don’t have a car.” Frank patted the dashboard of his Pontiac Torpedo.
“I think it’s romantic.” Calla watched as the pair on the bicycle dissolved into the black night.
“You leave the romance to me.” Frank picked up speed and turned on the radio.
*
As Nicky pedaled his fiancée on the road, a tiny sliver of the moon came out, enough to guide him along the river.
Peachy closed her eyes and let the cool night air whisk away any worries and cares she may have had and blow them out of reach.
There weren’t a lot of girls in the world who would settle for a sandwich in the park and a bike ride home, but Peachy DePino would, and she did. In Nicky Castone’s mind, that made her a keeper.
TO: E. GUARDINFANTE
FROM: C. GUARDINFANTE
10 MAGGIO, 1949
VIAGGIO PIACEVOLE. PIù DALL AMERICA ALL’ ARRIVO.
The MS Vulcania had been sailing across the Atlantic for five days when a handwritten invitation was slipped under Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante’s cabin door in second class.
The pleasure of your company is requested this evening For dinner and dancing
At 8:00 p.m. in the Grand Hall
Carlo’s eyes widened.
We will be joined by Captain Jack Hodgins
He nodded, impressed.
Mr. and Mrs. Joseph (Isabel) Scacciaferro Mr. and Mrs. Attila Mario Seltembrino (Dorena Fata) Castellani and
Mrs. Patricia Zampieri
The ambassador’s heart began to race. The Scacciaferros, the Castellanis, and the widow Zampieri were titans of American industry, importers of Italian marble with family ties to the quarries in Tuscany. They provided American contractors with exquisite Carrara marble for use in buildings, churches, and monuments. This invitation presented the kind of company that the ambassador had hoped to keep on the MS Vulcania.
His eyes fell on one last detail.
Formal dress required
Carlo would dazzle them in his regimentals. Elisabetta had seen to it.
3
Concetta DePino placed neat stacks of hot-pink tulle in front of each place setting on her dining room table. She anchored the squares with a box of Jordan almonds tied with a pink satin ribbon and a tag bearing the name of each of Peachy’s bridal attendants and her aunt-in-law Jo Palazzini. Two work baskets, filled with craft scissors, rolls of pink ribbon, and additional boxes of Jordan almonds were placed at either end of the table.
The mother of the bride checked the centerpiece, a large, white honeycomb paper wedding bell that folded out in three dimensions, which she’d borrowed from her neighbor, Dolly Farino, who had a closet full of whimsical table decorations on hand for every occasion.
Dangling from the cut-crystal chandelier over the table was the wedding date: October 29, 1949, spelled out in cardboard letters and numbers dipped in silver glitter. If Concetta DePino could have hung those digits in pavé diamonds etched in gold bricks, she would have, as the single highest achievement of her career as a mother was the confirmation of the wedding date of her daughter and Nicholas Castone.