“My father was the former,” he tells me. “A lawyer, commuting into New York.” I hold my breath. He hardly mentions his parents. I know they are dead. Henry has mentioned a car accident. I tried to relate, my own father died in a car accident, I said at the time, but he’d brushed me off.
“Mr. Whittaker was a wonderful man,” stage-whispers a man from the table next to us. He is small, his shoulders hunched into the table. His hands are large and his knuckles misshapen. He claws a fork that shakes over his plate of ziti. “My boy got in trouble, that boy was always in trouble. Mr. Whittaker saved his hide plenty of times.” His eyes twinkle and he nods at Henry. “But he knew how it was to have a troublemaker son.” He shakes his index finger at Henry. Henry smiles at the man.
“Were you a troublemaker?” I tease, coyly. Henry smiles and rolls his eyes in the man’s direction.
“That’s Mr. Zappetti. His mind,” Henry says and taps his temple with his middle finger. The man shakes his hand in Henry’s direction and laughs.
“You kids.” The man turns to me. “My son, he’s a good citizen now, just like your Henry. The wild boys. They run wild.”
Henry is pulled into another conversation. The men, they want his advice on their investments, the women compliment my dress and ooh and ahh when I tell them Henry bought it as a surprise. They cluck and raise their eyebrows when I order white wine (What’s wrong with the red?) and when I remind them which house is Henry’s, Mrs. Zullo, a tiny gray tuft of a woman, nods knowingly and clicks her tongue.
“That’s the old Vizzini place.” She raps the table with her knuckles and all the tables around us say ohhhhhh in unison. “That old strega. She died in that place, you know.”
Her husband elbows her. “Vita mia, hush now, that was forty years ago.”
I look over at Henry, who is forty years old, and wonder when they moved there. Where did he live before? So much to learn about my husband, so much I don’t know. It’s odd, I realize, to have this much blank space in a marriage, this broad of a canvas to fill in. Maybe. I don’t know, this is my first one. His foot touches mine under the table.
Mrs. Sartini, as round and wobbly as Mrs. Zullo is small, shakes her finger at us. “Mrs. Vizzini, she died of a broken heart. Left by a man at fifty. Zitella!”
The crowd breaks up laughing. I don’t know what zitella means, but even Henry tips his head back in belly laughter.
I can’t stop checking my phone. For what, I’m not sure. Another email from Cash? Another picture of her? The clock creeps toward nine and one by one, the tables empty with bids of good-night and nice meeting you, and too-friendly cheek kisses, until Henry and I are finally alone. His fingers tickle my thigh and I shift away.
“What did you do today?” His eyelids are drooping, sleepy-drunk, and he has a dopey smile on his face.
“Not so fast. You were a troublemaker?” I prod, tapping his toe with mine.
He waves his hand, annoyed. “Mr. Zappetti is a storyteller. No, I was not a troublemaker. I was a kid. I think we soaped his windows one Halloween.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Hey, it’s tough to entertain yourself in this town,” he protests, his eyes shining.
“Tell me what you did today,” he says, again, smiling. My mind goes white. I hesitate, my hand fluttering above my wineglass.
All at once, I remember Caroline, her arched eyebrow, her dark wild hair, her mischievous eyes. Then, Aren’t I enough? I can’t do it. I can’t kill the evening, break this spell. I picture his smile fading, his posture straightening, how he would adjust his collar or clear his throat. He’d say something so Henry like, I thought we discussed this before, Zoe or You found your birth mother . . . on Facebook? As though it were laughable and it would be diminished. Instantly reduced in the way that only Henry can, with a flick of his wrist or a twist of his lips. Then we’d sit in silence. I’d clear my throat and he’d throw back the rest of his wine and we’d leave. No, no, no. Henry looks so happy and free, his shoulders loose and the furrow between his eyebrows is smoothed.
“Not much,” I say, deflecting. “I read a book by Ruth Rendell. A mystery novel. Have you read her?” I twirl a fork between my fingers. I’m fishing.
Henry scratches his chin and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t think so.”
“Really? You have one of her books on the nightstand in the other bedroom,” I say and raise one eyebrow, an expression I excel at.
“Oh well,” he says flippantly, “that was Tara’s room. She read voraciously.”
“Oh? The guest room was Tara’s bedroom?” I’m not exactly feigning surprise—I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt about it.
“She would sleep there sometimes. I worked late, she liked to go to bed early. I suppose it sounds odd now. It seemed so normal at the time.”
I picture a Brady Bunch relationship: chaste kisses on the cheek, while he brought her chamomile tea and McVitie’s biscuits. Pats on the cheek. Making love in the dark, missionary style.