“Smells divine,” Hortense commented.
Minna stirred the vegetables until they were soft. She climbed up on her stepstool and opened her cupboard, revealing mason jars canned with fresh tomatoes, seeds, skins, and all. She selected a jar and handed it to her guest.
She poured half a quart of the tomatoes into the skillet, blending them with the vegetables. She placed the colander over a stainless steel bowl and poured the mixture from the skillet into the colander. With her wooden spoon, she methodically pressed the vegetable juice and pulp through, leaving behind any skin, seeds, and threads from the vegetables. When she was satisfied that she had pressed all the best pulp and flavors from the mixture, she returned it to the skillet, turned the burner on low, and covered it.
“Now we have a glass of wine.”
“Bring it forth, Mrs. Viglione!”
“But before we do, I have to ask you to look away.”
“I won’t tell anybody you drink, if you won’t tell anybody I do.”
“It’s not that. I have to add the secret ingredient to the sauce.”
“You just showed me how to make it.”
“I left out one ingredient.”
“Why?”
“It’s been in my family, and I took an oath.”
“You’re not going to give me the secret ingredient? But how am I supposed to make the gravy come out like yours?”
“You may have it when I’m dead.” Minna shot Hortense a look like she meant it, so Hortense turned away. Hortense heard Minna climb back onto the stepstool. She heard the snap of the cupboard door, the snap of a canister, and the click of a spoon. She heard her hostess lift the lid of the skillet on the stove and return the lid to the skillet. Then she heard her put away the secret ingredient, just as she had retrieved it.
“You can turn around now,” Minna said.
“I don’t like secrets.”
“How can you work for the government?”
“True, it weighs on my Christian conscience. But not as much as a cooking secret weighs on my colored one.”
“I promise you’ll have the secret when I die.”
“I’ve known you for such a short time, but the thought of that already makes me sad.”
“I know. Isn’t it funny how that works when you make a friend?” Minna hoisted the wine jug from under her counter. She poured Hortense a glass, and one for herself.
“To Eleanor Roosevelt.” Minna raised her glass.
“To Mrs. Roosevelt.” Hortense sipped. The sip of rich, purple homemade wine filled the dispatcher with the pure heat of an Italian sun on a cloudless day. She savored it, closed her eyes, and let go. For the first time in her long and useful life, Hortense Mooney was in the moment.
7
The half-moon over Roseto looked like a broken button through the silver chiffon clouds. A large white tent, the venue for the town’s annual Cadillac Dinner, dazzled in the black field as music played by the live orchestra sailed out into the night.
A brand-new dove-gray 1950 Cadillac convertible with a black top was displayed in the field, in a blaze of floodlights. The grand prize of the evening’s raffle was decorated with an enormous glittering gold bow, as if an object of such grandeur needed further adornment. Every person in attendance hoped to drive it home.
The dinner guests arrived from all directions, some in cars, others on foot. The quick clicks of the heels of their dress shoes could be heard on the sidewalks as they poured toward the entrance of the tent.
The women were dressed in formal gowns made of satin, lace, and tulle, in spring shades of pink, yellow, and mint green speckled with sequins, crystals, and seed pearls. The ladies looked like a floating garland of blossoms as they lined up to pick up their table cards. The men wore black tie and dress shoes that pinched their feet, and, in a tip of the top hat to the evening’s formality, traded their cigarettes for cigars.
The Jubilee Committee had decorated the interior of the tent in the Italian national colors of red, white, and green. Luckily, the colors of Italy’s flag were the same as the town Christmas decorations, so the holiday lights that hung across Garibaldi in December pulled double duty inside the tent in June.
The tables were set with red tablecloths and the white church china. The centerpieces were pedestals mounted with cookie trays wrapped in cellophane and festooned with a small bouquet of red carnations attached with ribbons. The women of Roseto had baked biscotti, iced coconut cookies, fig bars, nut drops, jelly centers, pizelles, and chocolate twists by the hundreds for the event. The scent of sugared almonds, anisette, and vanilla filled the tent, competing with the ladies’ best perfumes: Tabu, Charles of the Ritz, and Intoxication by D’orsay.
Fifty tables of ten were filled. It was the largest Cadillac Dinner in history, surely because the ambassador of Roseto Valfortore was the guest of honor. In a matter of a few short hours, Carlo Guardinfante had become the most popular man in town. He ingratiated himself to the Rosetani with his excellent English and good humor.
Word spread quickly of the specifics of his Italian lineage (which they shared), his good looks (power and beauty are an excellent combination), his height (a lucky break for any Italian male), and his warm personality (he was one of them). If there were an election the ambassador would beat Rocco for chief burgess handily, and Rocco Tutolola was beloved.
A parquet dance floor had been installed in the center of the tent. The dais, elevated over the crowd where the ambassador and town officials were seated, overlooked it, with the orchestra facing them on the other side. The tables were staggered inside the tent on either side of the dance floor.
Nicky surveyed the bash from his seat on the dais. The place cards had been printed in gold, except the one next to his, which was handwritten: “Mrs. Mooney, Attaché to Mrs. Roosevelt.” He rested his arm on the back of Hortense’s empty chair.
Nicky checked his watch. Where was Mrs. Mooney? His stomach grumbled. Nothing makes a man hungrier than being nice to people, therefore he was famished. He fished for a coconut cookie through the cellophane as he waited.
Nicky was nibbling on the cookie when Eddie Davanzo handed him an envelope.
Dear Ambassador,
I regret I won’t make it to the dinner, but I’d rather kill myself than attend.
Have fun.
Mrs. Mooney
“I hope she’s all right,” Eddie said. “Mrs. Tutolola and I knocked several times, and she didn’t answer the door.”