“I wonder why.”
Olivia spread her fingers wide. “Editorial feedback. Alfonse has ever been needy that way.”
“He hates editorial feedback.”
“When it’s critical. I’m certain Judith had nothing but praise.”
“Didn’t sound like it.” Switch turned another page, flipped backward, then forward again. “So you write in parts. He has one point of view, you have the other.”
“Yes. No planning ahead, just going from what has already been written. It’s rather exciting.”
“But now you’re stuck.”
She nodded. “Because Alfonse went and killed off my heroine’s father and robbed her of the motivation that . . . It’s hard to explain. I’m a little lost. To make this work, my character has to become someone I never intended her to be.”
“Hmm . . . maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
Switch closed the book but kept it in his lap. “Let me read it. There’s not all that much so far. Maybe I’ll see an angle you’re missing.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“You know the process, Olivia. Sometimes you need new eyes on something to really see it.”
He was right, of course. Ego resisted. This was her story. And Alfonse’s. And apparently Judith’s, damn it all. Had he, like her, gotten stuck? Whatever else she was, Judith had always been an excellent editor. It was all about the story, after all. Isn’t that what she always preached?
“All right, Switch,” she said. “But I need it back right away. We only give one another a week to write our respective parts. I’ve already wasted almost four days.”
“I’ll have it back to you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be able to come up with an answer for you. In the meantime . . .” Switch reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie. “First of the newest crop. You’re going to love this one. It’s a new hybrid. Won’t make you as sleepy. At least, that’s what the seed catalog said.”
Olivia took the baggie from him, fingered the contents through the plastic. Opening the bag, she inhaled deeply. Sweet, slightly skunky heaven. “My word.”
Switch nodded. “Let me know how it helps with your pain. I have more of the old stuff if you need it.”
“I still have some.” She pocketed the baggie. “Thank you. I’d have probably killed myself by now without our little herbal miracle.”
“That’s what Bethany used to say.” His smile turned sad. “I wish I knew then what I do now. I wouldn’t have had to risk jail to buy her relief.”
“Times change,” Olivia told him. “People learn. If November’s vote goes well, you won’t even have to hide our plants in the peppermint anymore.”
“Don’t have to hide now, really. No one cares what old people do. Unless it’s driving. Everyone has an opinion about that.” He got to his feet, patting the notebook’s cover. “I’m excited about this.”
“Just keep it to yourself. And to me. No telling Judith either. Not that she’s likely to remember. Is Alfonse aware of her . . . memory issues?”
“He is now.” Switch saluted. “See you later, Livy.”
But Switch didn’t appear in the dining room that evening. Judith hadn’t seen him all afternoon. Alfonse told her not to be such a hen. Olivia held her tongue. Despite the oxygen tubes in his nose, Alfonse still looked rather blue around the gills. He barely ate the soup she harangued him about so forcefully Judith had to kick her under the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her shin. “I just worry about you, Alfie.”
“You’re going to worry me into the grave,” he grumbled. “Leave the doctoring to the professionals.”
“Yes, dear.” She batted her eyes. Alfonse’s gaze narrowed, but whether he was appeased or too tired to care, he didn’t challenge her.
Once dinner was done, she and Judith walked him to his suite, where the night nurse took him from them with a smile and the assurance he’d be taken care of. Not all the nurses were snooty. In fact, one-on-one, they were quite nice. It was only when thrown together in an us-against-them power struggle that they turned ugly. Or when Cecibel dared overstep her bounds. There was nothing quite so waspish as a nurse usurped of her duties. Or when Dr. Kintz was around. The preening among the unmarried women would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetically cliché. Or maybe Olivia was just remembering herself, once upon a time.
“I’ll walk back to your rooms with you, Judith.” She hooked her arm through the younger woman’s. “It’s a lovely evening for a stroll through the gardens, don’t you think?”
“That would be nice.” Judith patted her hand as if they’d never been anything but dear friends. Maybe a failing memory wasn’t such a bad thing. Judith had arrived in the Pen slightly confused and quite grateful to have so many familiar faces around her. Olivia had to admit she’d never despised the woman, only her place in Alfonse’s past. Maybe Judith never knew they’d both loved the same man. Maybe she did once, and no longer remembered. Or maybe she just pretended, to keep the peace. Whatever it was worked for them both. Olivia didn’t hold a grudge. Not one she’d admit to, anyway.
“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” Judith paused with her hand on her door. “Cognac?”
“No, thank you, dear. I don’t drink. It gives me headaches.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. All right, then. Good night.”
“Good night, Judith.”
Olivia started slowly away, listened for Judith’s door to close, then turned on her heel and made a beeline for Switch’s room down the hall. She knocked softly. At first. Then harder. Was that the shuffle of slippers on carpet? Olivia listened harder. “Raymond? Are you in there?”
The lock tumbled. The door opened. Switch looked as if he’d been hit by a bus, or thoroughly kissed. He pulled her inside. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Didn’t mean to what?” She recovered her step. “What have you done, Raymond?”
He lunged for the notebook fanned on the arm of his chair, pressed it into her hands. Olivia opened the book, paged through Alfonse’s scrawl, her own neat hand. His, hers. And another.
Not cursive. Print. All caps. Some bigger, some smaller. In pencil, no less. Pages and pages of it.
“You wrote my part?”
“I wrote mine.” Breathless. Raymond Switcher was actually breathless. “It just happened. I swear I didn’t realize what I was doing until I’d nearly finished. I was . . . appalled. I really was. But look.” He pressed the notebook closer to her. “I figured it out, Livy. It works. He’s not—”
“Hush.” Olivia pushed past him, eyes on the notebook. She sat in his armchair. “I’m reading.”
Chapter 17
Paterson, N.J.
1955
Enzo
Enzo Parisi was the luckiest guy in the world. He didn’t always think so. When he was a pimply kid discovering all the ways he could make Little Enzo happy with his hand or a ripe cantaloupe, his pop had sat him down and said, “Enzo, between now and when you graduate college, get all the pussy you can ’cause after that, your dick belongs to one girl and one girl alone. Cecilia Giancami. Got that?” Enzo said he did and smiled when Pop nudged him in the ribs with that “Eh? Eh?” thing he did. Mama stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.
Enzo didn’t think he was the luckiest guy in the world then, mostly because he wasn’t sure what cats had to do with his recently gratified dick and why it would one day belong to Cecilia Giancami. She was just a little kid. He didn’t think Uncle Cami would want her to even know he had a dick, let alone that it was hers one day.
When he was a sophomore in high school, he was the luckiest guy in the world again. Cecilia wasn’t a little kid anymore. She was a freshman, and she was pretty, too. Prettier than Susan Carruthers, who knew from the minute Cecilia Giancami set foot in Eastside High she’d been deposed as reigning beauty queen. Cecilia wasn’t just prettier. She had better clothes, bigger boobs, and she was rich. Susan didn’t have any choice but to take the demotion
gracefully. Cecilia’s father was Dominic Giancami, and not even cute little high school girls could cross him without consequences.
By then, Enzo was firmly entrenched in Math Nerd Kingdom. Cecilia wouldn’t even say hello in the halls, let alone date him. He tried to follow Pop’s advice, once he figured out what “pussy” meant, but upon seeing Cecilia descend into the halls of Eastside in all her exceptional magnificence that September day, Enzo didn’t want any other pussy but hers. Ever.
He was the luckiest guy in the world from then on, if only in his head. No one ever had to tell him not to talk about the arrangement Pop and Uncle Cami came to when he was twelve and Cecilia nine and a half. It was a given. Enzo knew. So did Cecilia. This secret even they didn’t speak of made it all the more exciting, made the wait more exquisite, less excruciating. He always had the cantaloupes, after all. Or a nice, ripe pumpkin.
Senior year came to an end. Enzo was off to Princeton come the fall. Only four more years, and Cecilia would be his. Maybe she’d come visit him in college. Didn’t high school girls love boasting about their college men? In the midst of that daydream, Uncle Cami disappeared.
“Cami’s gonna turn up, Ginny. You’ll see,” Enzo overheard Pop say, days later.
“That’s not good enough,” Mama growled at him. “Our boy is going to marry that girl, just like Cami promised. You know how fast things shift when power changes hands.”
That night, he had his first date with the girl who would be his wife. He also got his first kiss. Not to mention the little added bonus of losing his virginity. Best of all, Enzo lost his heart, the one he thought lost long ago, but holy cow if he didn’t manage to lose it more completely than he ever dreamed possible.
Cecilia had been sweet, sexy, and, much to his virginal delight, a bit naughty. After the first go, she’d coaxed him into another, a third. And his mother down the hall, asleep in her bed. Enzo didn’t know which way the floor was by the time Cecilia finished with him. Way better than a melon. In fact, he’d never cheat on her with one again. Yup. Luckiest guy in the world.
July 4, 1954. Best day of his life, and would remain among the top ten until the day he died. Picnic at the D’Argenios’ cinder block pool—Italians could work miracles with concrete—and Cecilia in a polka-dot bathing suit with a cute little skirt that accentuated every curve. Hot dogs, burgers, potato salad until it was coming out his ears. The whole day topped off by fireworks up at Lambert Castle. Sparkle, flash, rumble, and pop in every direction, and Cecilia’s perfect face illuminated red, green, gold.
They were sitting apart from everyone else, up on the hill. Best spot in town. Her friends had been alternately horrified and impressed by her college-man boyfriend who’d been too drippy to even acknowledge at Eastside. But Princeton was a big deal, and anything Cecilia Giancami did was the new cool. Some of his math-club friends even got dates with her friends. If Jeremy Stubbins could be believed, he’d scored a smooth second with Vonnie Beretti.
“Today was fun, right?”
“Very.” A tight smile. Flat tone. Cecilia’s gaze drifted back to the sky.
“Something wrong?”
Now a sigh. “I suppose that depends.”
Enzo would never, ever forget the sorrow in her eyes, the tears welling, the way she bit her lip so adorably he had to kiss it or die. He didn’t want to die. Not when he was going to marry the most amazing, perfect, beautiful girl in the world, so he kissed her. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
His blood crackled. The fireworks boomed. Words failed. Utterly. Enzo pulled Cecilia into his arms. She squealed and she laughed and she cried at the same time. He kissed her long and he kissed her tenderly. No four-year wait. They’d be married before summer ended.
Standing before their parents and Monsignor Gallo, because good Catholics didn’t do anything important without a priest present, Enzo held Cecilia’s hand so tightly. “We want to get married now. We have to.” And Cecilia put a hand to her beautiful belly. Pops looked a little scared, a little proud. Mama and Aunt Maria gasped, fell into one another’s arms, and wept. The last reaction was the one Enzo feared most. Eternal damnation. A stay in the hospital. Maybe he’d be lucky and suffer only a few broken bones. It’d all be worth it for Cecilia, for their baby.
The shadow rose up, loomed closer. Cecilia’s grasp on Enzo’s hand tightened. He put a protective arm around her, as if that would save either of them. Instead of the anticipated pain, gentle arms went around them both.
“You kids,” Uncle Cami said, then turned to Pops. “I told you, didn’t I, Enz? Match made in heaven. Couldn’t even keep their clothes on a coupl’a years, eh? Monsignor, how soon can we tie this knot?”
Enzo nearly wept, but he held it together. Wherever Dominic Giancami had been all those weeks before turning up at St. Joseph’s Hospital had changed him, at least somewhat. As far as Enzo knew, he still maintained his kingdom with a healthy dose of fear and respect. But he and Aunt Maria held hands in church. Her face wasn’t pinched all the time anymore. He overheard Mama tell Pops that Cami’s longtime mistress had finally been given the boot. And with Cecilia? Holy cow. Uncle Cami doted on her the way Enzo promised to when they had their future father-in-law/son-in-law chat.
“I feel like a little girl again,” she’d confessed one night after supper with her parents and little brothers. “I didn’t think he loved me anymore.”
“You’re his little girl,” Enzo said. “Of course he does.”
She’d only nodded then, tears in her eyes. Enzo had pulled her close, kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips. He would never tire of worshiping her. Never.
And then they were married.
And then they were off-campus apartment hunting.
And then they were moved in, just days before Enzo started classes. Cecilia got a job at a local dress shop, though she needn’t have. Between the allowance Pops gave them and the heaps of money Uncle Cami tossed their way, they lived well. Better than well. Enzo was happier than he ever imagined during those erotic daydreams he used to have as a pimply teenager gratifying himself with cantaloupes and a yearbook picture of his intended. Those daydreams were ghosts. Ghost dreams. Flimsy wisps blown away by the joy of his reality.
And then it was Christmas. O! Holy Night. Their little apartment decorated with lights and tinsel and a too-big tree. Cecilia attempted to make the holiday meal for his family and hers, despite her already cumbersome belly. The turkey was dry and the gravy too salty. The stuffing could have broken a tooth had anyone had the courage to eat any. To Enzo, it was the best Christmas in his life. Next year would be even better, with a baby in the house. Toys under the tree. In time, a bicycle he’d struggle to put together on Christmas Eve. All the Christmases to come spread out before him like a Rockwell promise.
And then came January. Cecilia cried a lot.
And February. She cried almost nonstop. Mama said it was baby blues. Enzo wasn’t so sure.
And March 3, 1955.
Patricia Edith Parisi roared into the world, a whopping twelve pounds. Cecilia and the baby were healthy and resting. The nurses said he could see his wife and daughter soon. Enzo handed out cigars. Uncle Cami beamed, handing out little bottles of Scotch. No one said anything about the extra-large baby born only seven months after the wedding. It wasn’t really a secret, though everyone pretended otherwise. No one but Enzo knew his first time with Cecilia had been closer to July than May. Eight months was long enough to cook a twelve-pounder, he was sure.
Hours later, Enzo quietly entered the private room Cecilia and his daughter had to themselves. St. Joe’s, same hospital both he and she had been born in. The princesses of Paterson would have nothing less. Dominic Giancami wasn’t letting any grandchild of his be born in central Jersey, anyway. Tomorrow, her parents, his, the whole damn town would be there with flowers and chocolates and little pink baby clothes. Tonight, they were all his.
The baby at her breast, her face tipped down, gaze so loving Enzo thou
ght his heart would break, Cecilia hummed softly. No formula for his child. Nothing but the best, and whatever Cecilia could provide her was just that. Enzo moved in, suddenly shy. Cecilia looked up. There were circles around her eyes. Tiny, broken blood vessels spidered her face. Hair in a ponytail grown so long. She’d never been more beautiful.
Enzo sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down upon his daughter suckling at his wife’s breast, and this time when tears threatened, they fell. She was so small, yet gigantic compared to the other infants in the nursery—a room his daughter had not and would not see, courtesy of King Cami.
Her face wasn’t puckered like an infant’s. Patricia was a chubby little cherub, complete with dimples that deepened as she suckled. Curls framed her busy face. Thick. And blond. Blond, not brown like his, like Cecilia’s. There were no blondes in either of their families, were there? Maybe it was a baby thing. Weren’t they all born blond and blue-eyed? That had to be it.
Patricia stopped suckling. She let go her mother’s nipple and stared up at Enzo, that wise infant gaze telling him all he should have known from the start.
“Tell me now, Enzo,” Cecilia said softly, so tenderly. “Is she my daughter? Or is she ours?”
He couldn’t look away from the tiny being his whole world had revolved around all those months. Patricia. He’d loved the name. If she’d been a boy, he wanted Patrick, but Uncle Cami said no grandson of his would have a mick name, so they’d decided on Thomas instead. Enzo had secretly wished for a girl. He’d call her Patsy, and she’d be his angel. His princess. His pride and joy. Just like Cecilia was to her father. But the beautiful baby staring up at him wasn’t his.
“I’m sorry, Enzo,” she whispered. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Cecilia, please. Just . . . just please don’t say anything.”
Is she my daughter? Or is she ours? Could he do it? Enzo’s heart was a drummer in his belly. Patricia Edith Parisi. That’s what the birth certificate said. He’d spent months loving her, dreaming about her, planning for her. His gaze moved inch by excruciating inch from baby to mother. “Do you love him?”
The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses Page 13
