“Who are her people?”
“She’s a Mugavero. Prettiest girls in town if you ask me. Good bone structure. That’s a lucky break you know. She married Augusto Confalone. Sad story. He died in the war.”
“She’s a widow?”
“Yes.”
“Not remarried?”
“No. In fact, shows no interest. Of course, she has her son. He’s five years old, and he’s her life. As it should be.”
“Yes. Yes.” Nicky wanted to pitch Cha Cha out of the tent, find Mamie, and leave town with her, but he must not be rash.
“A woman that has a child doesn’t have time for tomfoolery when the child is small. The child has to be raised. That’s your first priority as a mother.” Cha Cha sniffed with authority.
“Yes, mothers are God’s eyes and ears on earth.”
“That is lovely.”
Cha Cha pressed into Nicky as they danced. The juxtaposition of her chatter about motherhood and her simultaneous grinding into his body with her ample bust and girdled midsection made him dyspeptic, or it could have been the undigested Beef Wellington—he couldn’t be sure.
“Once children are raised, that’s a different situation. A woman can go back to being girlish. A woman has wiggle room to enjoy herself. She can go out, travel. Dance with ambassadors from foreign countries in uniform.”
“You must vee-zeet Roseto Valfortore, Cha Cha.”
“Is that an invitation?” Cha Cha ground into Nicky like a drill bit.
“When one invites another to vee-zeet, that is an invitation. No?” Nicky felt the stays of Cha Cha’s girdle poke into his upper thigh.
“Si. Si. Si,” she purred. Nicky felt a low rumble of desire peal through her body.
“You would love Eee-taly. Your husband would-uh enjoy it. A second honeymoon for two lovers. No?”
“No. Yes. It sounds swell. Rocco doesn’t like to travel. He has motion sickness.”
“What a shame.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother him when he takes his friend out on his speedboat on the Delaware.”
“You should be happy he has outside interests.”
“I’d be happier if it wasn’t a girlfriend.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Politics. You know. Power. Women crave Rocco like chocolate. But I’d like his comare to live with him for a week and see if she’d stick around for the duration. I’ve had to do things to Rocco a medical doctor wouldn’t attempt. I’d like to see his girlfriend go at him with tweezers, a magnifying glass, and ointment and see how long she’d last. Trust me. She wouldn’t.”
Revolted, Nicky dumped Cha Cha off at the dessert table before sashaying back to the line of ladies waiting for their dance with Carlo.
Rosalba cut the line and grabbed Nicky to dance to a Perry Como medley. She attached herself to his body like a barnacle on the second bar of “Volare.”
“You dance like your mother,” Nicky said, worried that the wool on his borrowed suit would pill.
“I learned how to dance at the Bee Hive in Bangor.”
“Such skill.”
“Thanks. How do you like Roseto?” Her hot breath in his ear made it itch.
“A charming villaggio.”
“How about your room?” She bit his earlobe.
“It’s fine.” Nicky pulled his head back and glared at her.
“We share a wall.”
“I did not know.”
“Now you do. It gets hot.”
“Where?”
“In the guest room. My mother stuffs it with junk.”
“I did not notice.”
“Don’t open the closet.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Nicky had dropped his accent, but he didn’t care.
“My room has cross breeze. If you get hot.”
“I don’t get hot.”
“Even in this wool uniform?”
“Especially not in this wool uniform.”
“How about when you’re out of it?”
“I sleep in the uniform in case of an invasion in the middle of the night.”
“That could be arranged.”
Nicky had had enough. He pulled her off to the side of the dance floor. “How old are you, Rosalba?”
“Eighteen.”
“When?”
“A year and a half from next March.”
“So you’re sixteen.”
“I’ll be eighteen in no time.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“A couple. Well, three, if you count the mechanic I’m stringing along in Pen Argyl.”
“Three boyfriends? Isn’t that enough for one young lady? Why are you bothering me?”
“I’m bored.”
“Get a library card.”
“I hate to read.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I think I found one.” Rosalba pulled him close as a Perry Como sound-alike sang “Some Enchanted Evening.” Nicky tried to take tiny steps backward. Rosalba mistook his steps as leading and pulled Nicky back onto the dance floor.
“I am a married man!”
“Doesn’t count when you’re abroad.”
“Where do you get these rules? Aren’t you a Catholic girl?”
“I do what I want and then I just go to confession.”
“That’s not the purpose of confession. You confess to sin no more.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I have no idea. I’m not your priest!”
Disgruntled, Nicky dropped Rosalba off by the bandstand. He surmised that, with a full orchestra, including woodwind, brass, and string sections, surely she’d find a horn player to amuse her.
Nicky looked at the long line of local ladies lolling along the wall, waiting to Lindy with him. Quickly, he did the math in his head. He estimated the number of women in the queue, the time it would take to do one rotation on the dance floor with each lady, and concluded he could knock out his obligation and flee the tent in forty minutes. He set his mind on his goal like an Olympic athlete.
Nicky plucked the line in order from the front, taking each lady for her revolution, dumping her back at the start, and picking up the next one for her spin. He perspired so heavily, his uniform began to itch, but he did not stop to scratch. He felt like he was in a dance marathon during the Great Depression, except this one came without a cash prize.
Each dance partner had some nugget of gossip to share, and by the end of the dance-floor rondelet, Nicky knew the history of the town, a few of the prominent citizens’ peccadilloes, and, most importantly, the story of Mamie Confalone.
Nicky delivered the last lady, his final obligation of the night, into the waiting arms of her husband. He bowed from the waist and headed for the exit, where Eddie Davanzo stood guard in his police uniform.
“Those ladies wore you out. How did you do it?”
“Che bella. They were lovely. Fleet-footed. Which one was your mama?”
“The one who smelled like calamine lotion. She worked in her garden all day and got poison ivy.”
“I remember her well.”
“Your back must ache.” Eddie chuckled. “There wasn’t one of them over four foot eleven.”
“One. The lady from West Bangor was-uh six foot two.”
“Statuesque.” Eddie grinned.
“It gave my neck a stretch.”
“You needed it. Ambassador, if you don’t mind me saying it, the only reason you could ever get away with that suit is because you’re a foreigner.”
“This is the official dress regimentals of my province.”
“It looks like the Penn State band uniform.”