by Liz Talley
“Where’s Sal?”
“He went out for coffee.”
The woman turned, crossed her arms, and raked Rosemary with a cold glance. “You know, I should have expected as much. This is typical of him.”
“Typical?” Rosemary repeated, the niggling feeling that had bothered her yesterday back full force. This woman meant something to Sal. This woman barely held her anger in check.
“Bringing home one-night stands just to irritate me,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Irritate you? Wait, I’m not a one-night stand. I’m—” She snapped her mouth shut because she’d been about to say a two-week stand. Wasn’t like she could say she was something more. They were, after all, no strings and all that. “Wait, who are you?”
“Angelina Vitale,” the woman said, her lips curving in an unpleasant manner. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he?”
Nope.
“Why would he?” Rosemary asked.
Angelina gave a fake ha-ha-ha laugh. “Only because I’m the woman he’s going to marry.”
Rosemary felt her stomach hit her toes. “Marry? He’s not engaged.”
Was he? Rosemary felt like she’d been tossed off a ship into shark-infested waters without so much as a how-do-you-do.
“Yet,” Angelina said, walking into the kitchen and setting the bag she’d been carrying on the small counter beside the sink. “But he will be.”
Rosemary’s mouth went dry. “He never said anything about you or marriage.”
“And why would he? He was interested in getting in your pants . . . or under your skirt. He wasn’t going to tell you he had been contemplating settling down with me, now would he?”
Angelina had a point. If Sal were engaged or heading toward engagement, he likely wouldn’t have told Rosemary. He’d made a comment about having his life planned out for him. So was this what he meant?
She’d assumed he referred to the pressure from his father regarding the deli, not settling down with the beautiful woman standing before her, looking as if she might slap Rosemary silly. Still, Rosemary couldn’t reconcile the Sal she’d known and loved for the past few weeks as some philandering, mustache-twirling villain who lied to a dumb-ass country girl in order to land her in his bed. “So you’re saying you’re his girlfriend?”
Angelina didn’t say anything. Just looked at her as if Rosemary was the biggest whore this side of the Hudson River.
“If that’s true, why didn’t you say something yesterday afternoon when I came to the restaurant? I saw you there, drinking with him at the bar,” Rosemary said.
Angelina shrugged. “I assumed you were a friend from culinary school. Sal said he had a friend who wanted to go over the menu and make some suggestions. Now I feel ridiculous. After all, you weren’t exactly dressed for business.” She looked down at Rosemary’s rumpled dress.
“He told you I was a friend from culinary school?”
“Why would I lie? Especially to the woman who just fucked my fiancé.”
Rosemary clutched her stomach and tried not to choke on nausea. “But you said y’all weren’t engaged yet.”
Angelina sniffed. “Semantics.”
Crazy thoughts ballooned in her head. Sal agreeing easily to her two-week affair verbal contract. Sal begging her not to say she loved him. Sal practically shoving her out of Mama Mello’s to fetch tiramisu. So many things he’d done to allay his guilt and hide her, including staying almost every night at her place and avoiding Little Italy if she suggested going there. Rosemary hadn’t seen his true motivation because she hadn’t been looking for it.
Shame burned inside her. She was the other woman. Sal had cheated on Angelina with her the same way Benton had cheated on Jess. Rosemary had spent many a night calling Brandy Robbins a slut, a homewrecker, and a fat-tittied cow. And now she was Brandy Robbins.
Her stomach rolled over.
“So why are you so matter-of-fact about this?” Rosemary whispered, tears springing into her eyes. “I slept with him.”
Angelina shrugged a shoulder. “How do you know I’m not crying inside? Like I would give you the satisfaction of knowing you hurt me?”
“Oh my God,” Rosemary whispered as she looked past Angelina to the still-rumpled bed where she and Sal had made love into the wee hours of the morning. She felt like she was going to be sick.
“Even so, I can forgive Sal. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face. I wouldn’t say you’re his usual type, but you are pretty. And besides, he forgives my flirting. When we get married, things will change, of course, but for right now, we’re a bit more open in our relationship. Suits us both until we make our vows before the church.”
Rosemary grappled with the idea of having an open relationship. Sure, she’d known some couples who weren’t exclusive. She’d even heard of married couples who were swingers. Heck, there were shows on TV about all sorts of strange relationships. But she couldn’t see Sal living that way.
Angelina tapped the bag she’d set down. “Tell Sal I’ve left him some of the tart I made with his mother. It’s his favorite and now so appropriate, don’t you think? Tart.”
Her words were meant to confirm who Angelina was in Sal’s life. She cooked with his mother. She obviously came to his apartment. Angelina was in his life, that much Rosemary could be certain about.
“Why don’t you wait for him? Sal will be back soon,” Rosemary said, searching for her purse. For some reason she couldn’t breathe. She needed to go back to Halle’s place. She needed to think. She needed to cry. Vomit. And cry some more.
“I have an appointment. Tell him I’ll catch up with him tomorrow at lunch.”
“Lunch?”
“We always eat at his parents’ after Mass,” Angelina said, walking toward her. She stopped in front of Rosemary, lifting a hand. Rosemary flinched, but Angelina merely tucked a strand of hair behind Rosemary’s ear. “Poor thing. I know this is shocking, but this is Sal. The man has such a weakness for a sweet face, but truly, you don’t belong in his world, now do you?”
Rosemary batted at Angelina’s hand and stepped away, trying to hide the tears trembling on her lashes. Pain roared in, flooding her, washing away common sense.
Angelina dropped her hand. “I understand. He’s a gorgeous man, full of soft words. But he belongs to me. So go back to wherever you’re from and leave Sal to a woman who understands him, to a woman his family already trusts and loves.”
Rosemary wanted to refute the ugly words that spilled from the woman’s lips, but she couldn’t. Because no matter what, Angelina was right. Sal belonged here. And Rosemary didn’t.
Without another word, Angelina walked toward the open door. Before she disappeared, she turned and gave Rosemary a small smile. “Perhaps it would be best if you left now. Anyone can see you’re already half in love with him, and that can only end badly for you.”
Then she shut the door, leaving Rosemary’s heart in ribbons on the floor.
“Oh my God,” Rosemary said to the empty apartment with its stupid flower arrangement and fanned sports magazines on the chipped coffee table.
Sal wasn’t who she’d thought he was.
But what did she expect, showing up in New York City acting like she was a worldly woman who had crazy flings with guys all the time? She had been such a blind fool. A big fat sucker.
Sal had used her desire to be bold and wild for his own purposes. She was a dumb rube who’d been easy pickings for a guy like him.
And the cherry on top of the disaster was her mother had been right—Rosemary hadn’t known enough about Sal for intimacy. Instead, she’d trusted untried instincts and jumped in without looking. And look what had happened.
She hurried into the bedroom and rooted around for the sandals she’d kicked off last night when Sal had tossed her onto his bed and beat his chest, doing a crazy Tarzan yell. Once she found them, she hurriedly pulled them on, shouldered the bag she’d stuck her change of clothes into, and finger combed her hair
.
Then before she fled Sal’s bedroom, she grabbed the pretty rose he’d laid across the note. Tossing it to the floor, she ground her heel against it and whispered, “You effing bastard.”
Childish, but somehow it appeased the anger rising alongside the pain.
Soon to be engaged.
Oh, Lord Jesus, what had she done?
Rosemary ran to the front door and slipped into the hall. Banging down the stairs, she said a silent prayer she wouldn’t run into Sal.
Please, God, don’t let me see him. Don’t let me throw up. Don’t let me fall apart until I get back to Halle’s. I know I’ve been a sinner. I know I’ve been a fool. Just do me this solid, God.
The prayer partially worked, because she made it down the street and to the metro stop without seeing Sal. Or his effing fiancée.
Now she had to make it back to SoHo.
Then back to Morning Glory.
Back to the Rosemary who was sensible, safe, and not apt to get her heart torn from her chest and danced upon because she wanted to play Sex and the City.
Rosemary knew where she belonged and it wasn’t in the Big Apple. And it wasn’t with Sal.
Sal opened the door, frowning at the lock. He was certain he’d locked it on his way out to grab breakfast. He’d never leave Rosemary so vulnerable even if his building had never had issues with crime.
“Rose?” he called, setting the coffee on the counter. “Breakfast, baby.”
Then he noticed two things at once—the Feinstein Realty bag sitting by the sink and the smell of Angelina’s perfume.
Alarm snaked through his body.
Oh shit.
“Rosemary,” he called, rounding the corner and entering the bedroom.
The bed was still a snarl of twisted sheets and the bathroom lay open and dark. No Rosemary.
Irrational fear swept over him. Had Angelina hurt Rosemary in some way?
No. That was ridiculous. Angelina could be a manipulative bitch, but she wouldn’t stoop to anything violent. At least he didn’t think she would.
“Rosemary?” he called one last time as he walked around the side of the bed and lifted the note he’d written, thinking maybe she’d left her own note. But then his gaze snagged on the crushed rose.
“Oh shit,” he said, crumpling the note in his hand.
Sliding his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed Rosemary’s number. He drummed the seconds off on his fingers until it went to voice mail. He hung up. Called again. No answer.
Then he tried texting.
Where are you? Brought back bagels and cream cheese.
He waited a few seconds. No response.
So he dialed her number again. She didn’t answer, but he left a voice mail telling her he was worried and asking her to call him back.
Next on the list was Angelina.
“Angelina Vitale,” she answered, sounding very businesslike and very innocent of wrongdoing. Like she didn’t know it was him calling.
“Hey, did you come by here?”
“Oh, Sal. Is that the way you greet people? How about, ‘Good morning, Angelina’?”
“I don’t have time for this shit, Angie. Were you here or not?”
“Where’s here?”
“My place.”
“I stopped by. Thought you might like some of the hazelnut tart I made with your mother last night. They came out nice. You’re welcome.”
“What did you say to Rosemary?”
“Oh, is that the whore’s name?”
Hot anger grabbed hold of him. He was going to kill Angelina. Shake her until her teeth fell out. “What did you say to her?”
“Just to tell you I brought the tart by.”
“What else?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Are you implying something, Salvatore?” Angelina asked, an air of superiority in her voice. “If so, spit it out. I have an appointment at nine in the Village.”
“Did you tell her you were my girlfriend or something?”
“Why would I do that? I’m not.”
“Okay, so did you imply something that wasn’t true?” he asked, grabbing his keys and his MetroCard. He also snagged his coffee. Something told him he’d need to be bright-eyed for the conversation that was about to go down.
“Not to my knowledge,” Angelina said, the sound of traffic swishing by in the background. “Look, if she inferred something between you and me, that’s not my problem. That’s your problem. If she runs out because I pop by, she’s definitely not the girl for you. A real woman fights for her man. A real woman doesn’t run like a frightened puppy.”
“Only because you said something to scare her away,” he said, heading out the door, locking it while juggling his coffee. “You like to tell people that we’re together, or let them think it, when we’re not. And it’s gone on far too long.”
“Oh, well, thank you, Sal. It’s so nice of you to turn my feelings for you into something sordid. I chat for a few minutes with your half-dressed slut and suddenly I’m the villain?”
“You told her something.”
“Maybe I told her the truth. That she doesn’t belong with you. That you belong with me. And what’s wrong with that?”
“I’m not with you.”
“Oh, come on. Stop pretending to be something you’re not. When will you accept reality, Sal? You’re a stupid greaseball with no education and a family who supports you. You ought to be glad any woman wants to go out with you.”
Sal wanted to throw something. Punch something. Crush the nearest object with his bare hands.
“Maybe so. But you know what’s really sad? I’m all that and I still don’t want you. So what does that make you?” He pressed the END button and shoved the phone in his pocket, feeling no regret. Angelina had intentionally set out to rip him and Rosemary apart. Yesterday at the bar, he’d known Angelina was angry and he hadn’t protected Rosemary from her because he hadn’t wanted to talk about his family, his problems, or the crazy bitch who thought he belonged to her. He didn’t want to acknowledge the issues in his life. Instead he’d carried on with the foolish daydream that he wasn’t Sal Genovese . . . that the problems in his life didn’t exist. He’d allowed this to happen by keeping the Angelina problem far away so he could live in his bubble of happiness.
But his ass had been bitten.
He ran for the train, not caring he looked like a lunatic, lurching around people taking leisurely Saturday morning strolls. He had to get to Rosemary. Had to make her understand Angelina was crazy, vindictive, and delusional all rolled into one dangerous package.
Christ, didn’t Rosemary know how he felt?
Didn’t she know him . . . that he’d never do something so low, so despicable? How could Rosemary believe he was the kind of man who would use her? The kind of man who would cheat on a woman?
His feet slapped the concrete, rat-a-tatting down the steps to the metro, his heart thumping hard time to the rhythm of despair.
Forty minutes later he stood before her cousin’s walk-up. Pressing the button on the call box, he waited.
No answer.
He pulled out his phone and dialed her number again, leaving a message when she didn’t answer. “Rose, I’m downstairs. Buzz me up. We have to talk.”
For several seconds he paced, praying one of the tenants would arrive and he could slip inside. Nothing.
Gilda.
He pressed the older woman’s button.
“Yes.”
Thank God. “Gilda, it’s Sal.”
“Oh yes. Can’t let you in.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Gilda, please. I have to talk to Rosemary.”
“Sorry. She told me you’d do this. No. Go away.”
“Please.”
No response.
“Fuck,” he said and kicked the side of the building. Turning, he caught sight of a woman pushing a stroller. She shot him a dirty look before telling her toddler the man had said a really bad word and that she should never rep
eat it. Probably had to tell the kid that often in New York City.
Sal sank onto the steps and cradled his head in his hands. He had to talk to Rosemary. If he could explain everything, she’d be okay. He could tell her about how his family didn’t like Hillary, how they hadn’t supported the engagement and how he’d jokingly told his mother he’d marry whoever she picked out. He could make her see that he’d habitually made bad decisions, that he’d considered Angelina at one point only because he didn’t trust himself. He could tell Rosemary he loved her. He could beg her not to ruin what they had by believing the worst of him.
Again he called. Again no response.
So he texted her.
I know Angelina told you some things. But they’re not true. She’s a friend of the family. Please talk to me. You know I wouldn’t cheat.
Sal felt near tears. He’d planned such a lovely night for them, and now everything was ruined.
His phone buzzed.
Leave me alone.
He tapped quickly.
Let me in.
She replied:
No. It’s better this way. I’m leaving anyway. We’re done.
He typed back.
Don’t say that. We still have tonight. Please don’t end us this way. Not on a lie.
He waited several seconds.
Nothing more from Rosemary.
Another thirty seconds passed with no response, so he texted,
Please talk to me. Let me in.
Go away or I will call the police!
He set the phone down on the stoop and looked out at the cars moving down Spring Street. Everyone was going about their normal everyday business while his world fell apart on the stoop of a SoHo walkup. How could they smile? How could they window-shop? How could they sip coffee and read papers and be so stupid?
He typed the only thing left to type.
I love you.
A few seconds later his phone buzzed.
