Rosemary paces back and forth, trying to see out the crack in the window to the street. I stand patiently, holding my bouquet of calla lilies (modeled on Claudette Colbert’s It Happened One Night). I put the flowers in the font and fluff my skirt. There is an ornate gold cross on the wall, the center of which is a mirror with the sacred heart of Jesus painted on it. I catch the reflection of my eyes in the mirror. Then I lean in and look closely. My eyes are blue, like my father’s, and they are clear, since I slept well last night, but something is wrong. I can feel it, and I can see it in my own eyes.
“Ro, what time is it?” I ask.
“It’s ten-thirty,” she says brightly. “But my watch is always fast.”
“At the rehearsal last night, I told John to be here by ten, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. I heard you,” she tells me.
“Is he here yet?”
“I don’t see his car. But that doesn’t mean anything. You know what? I’m going to go back to the sacristy. I can go outside and around through the side entrance, and I’ll see if John is there.” Rosemary grabs her coat and goes out the door.
“Men are always late,” Violet complains.
“Don’t forget. It’s a weekend,” Ruth says. “Traffic is horrible. John’s driving to the Village from the Upper East Side, and it’s impossible to get across town on time unless the guy has wings.”
We stand in the quiet for what seems like a very long time. I hear the organist pause and begin to play the same tune over again.
Finally, Rosemary pushes the door open and smiles. “He’s not here yet, but Roberto did his duty as best man and talked to him around eight o’clock this morning. He was having breakfast, and I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”
“What time is it now?” I ask.
“It’s exactly a quarter to eleven,” Rosemary says as she checks her watch. It’s not fast. I made Ruth check the clock in the sacristy a few minutes ago.
“Well, there’s nothing to do but wait,” I tell them. They don’t say anything, but they don’t have to. They’re worried. And so am I. Where is he? Has something terrible happened? My heart begins to race. I’ve been dating John Talbot for one year; not once in that entire year was he late. I’m sure Ruth would tell me that there’s a first time for everything. But my stomach flips and churns. I feel sick. I need air.
It’s funny how a church that’s always seemed so ornate and polished can suddenly seem like a hall. When I enter the vestibule, I notice that the collection baskets are stacked off to the side; the bulletin board is tacked with handwritten announcements; and the rubber rain mat, with its series of holes, reveals muddy marble underneath.
“I’m going outside,” I tell the girls. I go out to the street. The air is cold, and I inhale slowly to steady myself. I’m amazed that on the most important day of my life, nothing has changed in Greenwich Village. Across the street, a man in overalls pumps oil off his truck through a wide hose down into a valve on the sidewalk. There are three young women at the corner newsstand buying magazines, and in the diner, an old man is being served in his booth by the window. Don’t they know what day it is?
“Look, Mommy, the snow queen!” a little girl says to her mother as they pass me. The mother smiles at me, but in her expression, I see who I am. She puts her head down, tightens her grip on her daughter’s hand, and keeps walking. The stranger sees it; she knows. And I know, too. She does not want her daughter to see anything so sad.
I wait outside as long as I can, hoping that if I stare at Bleecker Street long enough, a car carrying my future husband will pull up in front of me. I don’t know how many times the cycle of red, yellow, and green is repeated before it becomes clear to me that the car I’m praying for is not coming. I go back into the vestibule. My bridesmaids look at me with forced smiles. Only Ruth looks away. She knows. John Talbot is not going to marry me. Not this morning. Not ever. I’ve been jilted.
CHAPTER TEN
What happens after a jilting is probably a lot like what happens after a murder. The clues are gathered, the crime scene is cleaned up, all the ugly details are removed, and then life goes on. I don’t know what happened in the immediate aftermath, like the seven-course meal at the Isle of Capri restaurant; or who told the band, the Nite Caps, to go home; or where the trays of cookies went. It’s been a week, and I haven’t asked. My gown is in the closet, and my bouquet is in a shoe box under my bed. I can’t find the tiara. It must have gotten lost between the church and home.
The attendants and I waited at the church until three o’clock. I insisted on it. Somehow I convinced myself that three o’clock was the magic time, that John would come to his senses and rush into the church apologetically. The guests, however, left after two hours. My brothers went pew by pew and told them that they could leave, that we would be in touch.
Roberto and Orlando went up to the Carlyle to find that John Talbot was still registered. Orlando cooked up some story about John being ill, and because my brothers were clean-cut and well dressed, the general manager relented and let them into John’s room. They found the room clean and the bed made but no sign of John. Not even a toothbrush. The general manager asked my brothers if they were going to take care of the bill. John Talbot owes the Carlyle Hotel $2,566.14. My brothers explained that they weren’t family. The general manager didn’t believe them.
On the way out, Roberto thought to ask the garage attendant about the Packard. The attendant said he hadn’t seen that car in a week or so. Odd. But what isn’t odd about a man who disappears?
We called the police, and they issued a missing-person’s bulletin after forty-eight hours, mostly as a formality. They had seen this sort of thing before, they told Roberto. It brought me no comfort to know other girls had endured this humiliation. In fact, that made it worse. I provided the police with pictures of John and the tickets for our honeymoon flight to Bermuda. They took everything and promised to return it later.
There’s a knock at my bedroom door. I don’t answer it. I haven’t for a week, why should I now? Mama pushes the door open.
“Lucia?”
I feel guilty for putting my mother through this. It wasn’t what she planned for her only daughter. “Hi, Ma.”
“I brought you something to eat.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Please, please eat,” Mama begs. “Our hearts are broken, seeing what that man did to you. Don’t die for him, too! He’s not worth it.”
Papa’s right—Mama is dramatic, Barese down to her soul. “Mama, I’ll eat. But I want to come down to the kitchen.” I’ve been lying in bed long enough. The more I stew about John, the angrier I get. I’m not a girl who is content to let things lie. I want to know why he did this to me. And the answers won’t come here in my room.
Papa beams when he sees me coming down the stairs. Then he looks up to heaven and thanks God. “I prayed that you would come downstairs, and that you would get angry.”
“Well, Papa, both of your prayers have been answered.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ruth asks as she turns off the expressway to the Cascades housing development.
“Are you getting cold feet?” I ask her. I realize it’s an ironic choice of words, but Ruth doesn’t let it throw her.
“A little. I lied to Harvey and told him we were going shopping. He was afraid if we drove out here, we might run into John. It’s possible he’s hiding out here.”
“The police checked already,” I say.
“Let’s have a plan anyway. If he is here, we won’t get out of the car.”
“Fine.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Ruth asks tenderly.
“I don’t know.”
“Lucia, I want to help you, you know that. But I don’t understand why you want to see the house. Why would you torture yourself that way? You have to forget about him.”
“Ruth, you know how we make clothes?”
Ruth looks confused.
“It’s the only thing I know how to do. You make a drawing, I break it down into pieces, those pieces are made into a pattern, the pattern is placed on the fabric, the fabric is cut, we stitch the pieces together, and then we have a garment.”
“Okay, but—”
“Listen, Ruth. I sat down in my room with a notebook and made a list of everything that I knew for sure about John Talbot. First I described him: that’s the drawing. Then I went through my datebook and wrote down every place we’d ever been, especially the places that we went more than once. Huntington Bay, Creedmore, the Vesuvio, all of them. Those are the pieces.”
“Okay, I get it. Now you’re sewing it together.”
“And when I’m done, maybe I’ll have something to look at that will help me understand what’s happened to me.”
“You haven’t been out here since . . .”
“Actually, we drove out here the day before the wedding. But at the last minute I told him I wanted to save the surprise for our wedding night.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s the last lot on this street.” I point to the end of the block. “With a view of the bay.”
“What a neighborhood,” Ruth says as she passes the new homes with their two-car garages and straw on the ground where the grass will grow. “No wonder you loved it so much.”
“There, Ruth!” I point to the hill that would have been my front yard.
Ruth pulls the car over in front of the lot. But there is no house, only a FOR SALE BY OWNER sign on the tree where the driveway was supposed to be. A phone number is printed on the bottom. Farther off in the empty field is a man searching for something in the back of his pickup truck.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ruth says, obviously hoping I’m wrong.
“Yes. This is it.” I get out of the car and climb up the hill to the man. “Sir?”
“Yes, miss?” He smiles.
“Is this your property?” I ask.
“No, it isn’t. I work for the man who owns it.”
“John Talbot?” This is the first time I have said his name aloud since I was left at the altar, and my icy tone is not lost on the caretaker.
“No. His name is Jim Laurel. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, if you know Huntington, you know Jim. He owns this entire development.”
“So this property wasn’t sold to anyone?” I don’t even want to know the answer, since it makes John’s lies so much worse to know that he planned to ruin my life.
“No, it just went on the market. You interested?”
“Maybe.” I can barely speak, I’m so upset.
Ruth joins us. “We’re looking at, um, lots of lots,” she tells him.
“Take my card.” The man gives Ruth his card and gets into his truck. As soon as he is gone, I sit down on the ground.
Ruth sits down next to me. “Come on, Lucia. Let’s go.”
“He lied about everything,” I say, not so much for Ruth to hear it as for me to believe it.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I look over the lot, and instead of seeing a sandy hill covered in patches of wild bamboo, low brush, and clumps of old seaweed, I see my home. Each detail is as I imagined it, the Tudor-castle door at the entrance, the glazed brick, the boxwood trimmed low on either side of the slate-and-concrete sidewalk, the rose taffeta draperies blowing in the breeze, and the chandelier, which I took hours to choose in Murano, twinkling in the foyer. The sights and sounds of my home are as real to me as the sand that I dig into with my hands.
“Come on, it’s getting late,” Ruth says, walking to the very spot where my front door would have been. “You’ve been through enough for one day.”
I start to follow Ruth down the hill but stop and point to the bay. “See that orange haze? It sort of settles over the water like sheer chiffon? The first time I made love to him, that’s what the bay looked like. Just exactly like that.”
Ruth takes my hand. I turn around as I walk to the car with her. I know that I will never see this place again.
Ruth and I don’t say a word as we drive home. We’re almost to Commerce Street when she breaks the silence.
“There’s one thing I really don’t understand. Do you mean to say that John Talbot drove you all the way out to Huntington the day before you got married, and there was no house? How did he think he’d get away with this? And what made you change your mind?”
I sit and think about this. Ruth pulls over, puts the car in park, and it idles as I search for an answer. “Somewhere deep within me, I must have known the truth. I knew he wasn’t who I thought he was. But I thought I could make him into the man I knew he could be.”
“Oh, Lucia,” Ruth says sadly.
“And somehow I believed that I was better because he loved me. You know how it is, Ruth. You think a man can give you what you want, so you surrender. Papa was right. I loved the way John looked, the places he took me, and the life he promised to give me. It was all on the surface.”
Ruth nods. She understands, and I surely do, too, what my attraction was to John Talbot. Now I have to figure out the rest of the puzzle so this never happens again.
Papa’s Veneto traditions have once again lost the Christmas wars. We won’t be fasting on Christmas Eve. Rosemary has prepared the feast of the seven fishes with Mama, and we’re all together. Even Exodus and Orsola decided to stay for the holidays. I think Mama had something to do with that. She convinced my brother that I needed him, and Exodus still wants to make up to Mama for staying in Italy.
Mama set a beautiful table: silver candelabras filled with white candles and her best china on a red tablecloth. After we sit down, Rosemary clinks her wineglass with a spoon. “First of all, merry Christmas, everyone!” What a change this is from last Christmas, when Rosemary was the meek new bride who had to ask Papa if she could hang lights in the window. This year she not only put lights in the windows, she also strung them through evergreen garlands down the railings and wove them through the front fence. Orlando calls it Sicily North. “Second,” Ro continues, “Roberto and I are expecting a baby in May!”
We leap out of our seats to hug and kiss the ecstatic parents-to-be. In the hubbub we hear the tinkling of a spoon against glass again. Everyone turns to look at Exodus.
“We have news, too!” Exodus announces.
“You’re moving home?” Orlando asks.
“No, we’re having a baby also! Ours is due in June!”
We cheer the second bit of happy news, but I can’t help feeling sad in the midst of all this joy. My brothers seem to know how to pick good partners and create a life. Why can’t I?
“Somebody get the door,” Mama says when we hear the bell.
“It must be Delmarr. I invited him for dessert,” I tell them and go to the hallway to answer the door. Usually I peek through the glass, but Rosemary’s garlands obstruct the window. I throw open the door.
“Lucia . . .” John Talbot is standing in the rain on our stoop, wearing his blue cashmere overcoat. I don’t move. At the bottom of the stoop are two policemen. I try to close the door, but I’m not fast enough. John pushes it open.
“Please, Lucia. I need to talk to you,” he says softly.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” The word sounds so weak and empty, I wish he hadn’t said it.
“I have to tell you what happened,” John says nervously. “I know you don’t have to listen, but please give me a chance to explain.”
I look at his face, still possessed of the fine features that I loved so, but there’s something in his eyes that frightens me. His shoes are scuffed and unpolished, and even the coat is shabby-looking. He is clean-shaven, but I can smell liquor on him, a first. I look at what a mess he has made of himself, of me, and I can’t believe it. Where were the signs that we would come to this?
“Where have you been?” I ask as I let
him in and close the door behind him. He’ll never be able to explain what he’s done, but I might as well learn what I can.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Lucia, are you okay out there?” Roberto calls out.
“Sshh. Don’t say anything,” John whispers. He puts one hand on the doorknob to go back outside.
Roberto comes around the corner. When he sees John Talbot, he becomes enraged. “How dare you come here!”
“I need to talk to Lucia,” John says with as much bravado as he can muster.
At the sound of his voice, all my brothers, as well as my father, rush into the hallway. The women stand behind them like a frontline battalion, present and ready to protect me.
“You want to talk to my sister? Are you crazy? After what you did?” Roberto shouts.
“I don’t owe you an explanation. I owe your sister.”
“You have that fucking right,” Roberto says. I hear my mother gasp at his language. “Where’s her money?”
He pushes past me, grabbing John by the collar and pinning him against the wall. John, clearly weakened and unable to fight back, slumps against the wall. Roberto slams John’s head into the plaster. “Where’s her money?” John doesn’t answer. Roberto slams his head again. “You thief!” John still says nothing. Roberto hits his head on the wall a third time. “Where’s her fucking money?”
Part of me wants Roberto to keep hurting him, as payback for the humiliation I endured on our wedding day. But I can’t bear to watch my strong brother beat this pitiful man.
“Stop it, Roberto!” I say. My brother steps back, and John slumps against the wall. “Please. I want to talk to him.”
The policemen, who had been waiting on the stoop, push the door open and put John in handcuffs. “That’s all the time you get. I’m sorry, ma’am. He told us you were his wife, and it bein’ Christmas, we gave him a gift.” One of them gives John a shove. “Don’t push it.”
I reach for John. “No, Lucia,” my father says, holding my arm.
My brothers stand guard, as they have done all my life, until the police car bearing John Talbot disappears around the corner of Barrow Street. I cannot move.
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