Whitejack. He had nearly finished her.
She wondered idly where he was now, what he was doing, and if he had a woman.
Whitejack. What would she do if she ever saw him again?
Kill the motherfucker.
Gino
1937
Gino felt very out of place at Costa’s stag night. He sat at a table and watched the activities through black hooded eyes. Bunch of school kids, crowing and laughing, throwing drinks and bread rolls at each other.
When the usual nude girl popped forth from a giant white cake, Gino thought that thirty-four ex-college boys were going to have thirty-four simultaneous orgasms! Christ! You would think they had never seen a naked woman before.
He had found out early on in the proceedings who Leonora’s husband was, and he watched him closely. The love of his life had married a chump. Edward Philip Grazione. A true asshole who worked in his father’s bank, had corn-colored hair and pop eyes. A body like a star football player though—which is exactly what he had been at college when he and Leonora had married.
Gino itched to see her again. He almost broke out in a nervous sweat just thinking about it. This infuriated him. He should be long over her by this time.
He was. He just wished that his body would get the message.
“Jennifer, keep still!” Leonora commanded. “How on earth can I fasten this if you are flying all over the room?”
“Sorry. I’ll be good. I promise.” Jennifer Brierly, Costa’s fiancée, stood quietly in the center of her bedroom while Leonora fastened her into a waist-cinching corset. “It’s so tight!” she complained when the job was done. “I can hardly breathe!”
“You don’t need to breathe,” Leonora replied crisply. “I think we deserve some champagne, don’t you?”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“It is also your wedding day. Why don’t I run downstairs and grab us a bottle?”
Jennifer nodded. Poor Leonora. She knew her friend drank, but wasn’t eleven o’clock pushing it?
“Here!” Leonora returned five minutes later, triumphant. She held a full bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Voilà!” Expertly she opened the bottle without its fizzing over, and filled the glasses. She handed one to Jennifer. “The toast is marriage,” she said, a bitter twist to her voice, “may it continue to flourish.”
Jennifer took a sip of the bubbly liquid and placed her glass on a table.
Leonora held onto hers, taking a few healthy gulps and then refilling her glass. “I hope you realize what you’re getting into,” she said, her voice still bitter.
“I’m not getting into anything,” Jennifer replied gently. “I’m marrying the man I love.”
“Love soon disappears,” Leonora snorted, “once you become their possession.”
“Costa won’t own me, I won’t own him. We’ll just be together because we both want to.”
“Huh!” Leonora sipped more champagne. “Let’s talk again in two years when romance is out the window. A wife is owned—if she lets herself be.”
“Oh, Leonora, please! I don’t want to have this discussion with you right now. I know everything is going badly between you and Edward, but that doesn’t mean every marriage is destined to be the same as yours.”
“True, true.” Leonora picked up the bottle and filled her glass again. “I’ll see you in a minute.” She walked quickly out of the room, not wanting her friend to see her crying. After all, it was Jennifer’s wedding day and she didn’t want to spoil it.
She had been thinking about Gino Santangelo all day and it was upsetting her. What would he look like now? The same? Broody and dark and dangerously attractive? Or would he, like her, have changed?
She knew she was not the same girl he had fallen in love with. When she looked in her mirror she saw lines and ravages and a mean tilt to her mouth. Why, oh, why, had she not waited for him? Was it his letters, so sickeningly romantic and unlike him? Or was it the fact that there were so many other young men to sample? And once she had sampled one—well, it had seemed only fair to sample the others.
Then Edward. Then Maria. Then the drink. Then the lovers.
Leonora frowned. Gino Santangelo. A girlhood crush. What was so special about him anyway?
“You sonofabitch!” Gino laughed. “You’re really gonna do it, huh?”
Costa grinned, “I really am.” They were in a limousine being driven to the church. “Be a little hard for me to back out now.” He added, “Besides, Jennifer is a terrific girl.”
“If you’re marrying her, kid, then I’m sure she is.”
“She’s not staggeringly beautiful or anything,” Costa continued earnestly, “not like Cindy.”
Gino burst out laughing. “Cindy! Staggeringly beautiful! Kid, she’d kiss your toes if I told her you’d said that.”
“Jennifer suits me fine,” Costa stated seriously. “She is the sweetest girl, I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it, her being Leonora’s best friend and all.”
The name Leonora hung in the air.
Soon they would be arriving at the church.
Soon Gino would be seeing her again.
He swallowed hard and stared out of the window.
Cindy took a cab to the church. She wore a white silk tailored suit that skimmed her body, not missing one of her magnificent curves, and over this a white fox stole draped casually. Her blond hair fell in a sleek fashionable bob, and on top of it she wore a white pillbox hat. Even if she did think so herself—the fact had to be faced—she looked like a movie star. If Clark Gable ever got a look at her he would faint!
The cabdriver said, “You getting’ married or sumpin’, sweetheart?”
“I’m a guest,” she replied haughtily, paying him off and entering the church.
Fancy having to take a cab to the wedding. The least Gino could have done was arranged a car for her. When she had complained he had merely said, “I forgot.”
A handsome usher looked her over appreciatively. “Bride or groom?” he inquired.
“Huh?” She blinked the baby blues as wide as possible.
“Bride or groom?” he repeated.
She was stumped.
Another usher stepped forward with a build on him that would do credit to a Greek god and hair to match the image. “Are you a relation or friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Why?” Cindy questioned, wondering what this Greek god looked like without his clothes on.
“Because we have to know who you belong to, so we know which side of the church to seat you.” He laughed.
“Oh!” She blushed. Nothing like looking dumb. “Costa’s an old friend.”
The usher smiled and took her arm. “Lucky Costa!”
Jennifer Brierly walked regally down the aisle, queen for a day. She held firmly onto her father’s supportive arm.
In front of her walked Leonora, matron of honor, preceded by the other three bridesmaids and Maria, Leonora’s nine-year-old daughter.
It was a regal procession, and nobody noticed Leonora’s slight stagger.
Standing in the front pew, Costa felt sweat engulf his body. He wanted to pee. He wanted to smoke. He needed a drink.
Gino, by his side, was outwardly calm. It took every ounce of control he possessed not to turn around and stare down the aisle. It wasn’t the bride he wanted a glimpse of. It was Leonora, who he knew would be right in front of her.
“I don’t feel so good,” Costa mumbled under his breath.
“You’ll be all right, kid. Just hang on.”
And then Jennifer and her father were coming into view, and Costa was moving to join her at the front of the aisle with Gino just a few steps behind. Gino glanced over. His stomach somersaulted. Exactly the fuckin’ same! Even in the misty gloom of the church he could see that.
She stood in profile to him, head slightly tilted, luminous crystal-blue eyes, wispy white-blond hair. She was wearing some sort of pink frilled dress that gently outlined
the curve of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, and flowed in soft folds to the floor.
His mouth was dry. He dragged his eyes away and stared straight ahead. The wedding service was commencing and he didn’t want to miss it.
As far as Gino was concerned, the rest of the day passed by in a blur. There was the wedding lunch and reception. Champagne. Food. Speeches. Toasts.
Franklin Zennocotti giving him the same mistrustful fish eye. Mary Zennocotti warm and motherly.
Cindy flirting around the place, looking like an expensive tramp, with every young guy in the place hot breathing it after her—including Leonora’s husband, who turned out to be as dumb as he looked.
Costa and Jennifer, lost in each other’s eyes. Smiling secret smiles and clutching tightly onto each other’s hands.
And then the lady herself.
Leonora.
No longer a girl. A woman of twenty-eight.
Gino—casual: “How you bin?”
Leonora—even more casual: “Fine. Yourself?”
Gino: “Not bad.”
Leonora: “Good.”
Silence. A very long silence.
Gino—concerned: “I hear you got a beautiful little girl.”
Leonora—unconcerned: “Yes. Maria.”
More silence.
Gino: “I ain’t got kids myself.”
Leonora: “No?”
They stood at the edge of the dance floor while couples whirled past.
Gino: “I think we gotta dance. Best man an’ matron of honor, y’know?”
Leonora: “Let’s get it over with, then.”
She was light as a feather in his arms. He held her at a discreet distance, and they spun around the floor to the strains of Pennies from Heaven.
He felt elated and sick and foolish and tough. Would she respond if he said anything? Did he honestly want to risk making a fool of himself? He was Gino Santangelo, for crissake. He was a big man. He could have any woman he wanted. In New York he was feared and trusted and respected. He counted senators, judges, and politicians among his friends. He screwed their wives.
“I’ve had enough,” she said abruptly. “I want a drink.”
“Sure.”
He spun her off the dance floor. “Leonora?” he began.
“Yes?” Her luminous crystal eyes were icy, freezing him out. Fuck her. She didn’t even have the class to try and explain, apologize, anything. “What do you want to drink? I’ll get it for you.”
“That’s all right.” She removed herself from his grasp. “My husband will get me a drink.” She walked away without another word.
He felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. What was with her? She glared at him like he was dirt, like she hated him. What the fuck had he ever done except sit around like a faithful sucker?
“Hi.” A little girl stood before him. A small nine-year-old mirror image of her mother.
“Maria?”
“Yes.”
What an exquisite kid. Same eyes. Same hair.
“How did you know my name?” Small head cocked inquisitively to one side.
He smiled. “Hey, you’re famous.”
“I am?”
“You am.”
“Good. ’Cause I want you to dance with me next. The best man’s supposed to dance with all the bridesmaids.” She grasped his hand shyly. “My turn now!”
“Little girl, it will be my pleasure.”
Gravely he held out his arms. Very correctly she stepped into them.
Soon they were dancing.
Carrie
1937
“Mr. Bernard Dimes, whose house is just down the street, is havin’ a party next Monday, Mrs. Becker usually lets us go an’ help out in the kitchen. You wanna do it? He pays real good.” Mrs. Smith regarded Carrie anxiously. “What you say? I gotta tell his housekeeper.”
Carrie didn’t know what to say. It would be like taking a step back into the past. But still… extra money. She was saving every dollar she could, although she hadn’t quite made up her mind for what purpose. “I’ll do it,” she agreed. At least it would be a change.
She had been working in the Becker household for six months, and the only time she left the house was to go to the market, except for the one occasion she had returned to the institution to see Dr. Holland. He had been pleased with her progress. “The real test was being back in New York with all the temptations. You seem to have passed with flying colors.”
Had she? Was hiding in her room on her days off passing with flying colors? Or was she merely hiding from temptation?
Perhaps she should go out on the street, take in a movie or a show, walk around and look in the shops.
She would—eventually. When she felt that she was ready.
Mrs. Smith and Carrie set off for the Dimes residence at five in the afternoon on Monday. Mrs. Smith had dressed for the occasion in her best flowered dress, but Carrie just wore her usual uniform, with her long black hair tied and plaited.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ else t’put on?” Mrs. Smith complained.
“These are my workin’ clothes,” Carrie replied dourly.
Mrs. Church, housekeeper to Mr. Dimes, greeted them at the kitchen door. To Carrie’s relief she was not the same woman who had been in residence when she had worked there.
The kitchen had been redecorated and modernized. But all the same Carrie felt a jolt as she entered it and looked around. It reminded her of an innocent little girl so very long ago….
The kitchen was busy. There was a strapping Swedish girl who wore a waitress ensemble and flopped in a chair awaiting her duties, two barmen who bustled about organizing ice and wine, and a housemaid who assisted the butler. A special chef in full white regalia was busy producing miniature vol-au-vents.
Carrie quietly attended to the more menial tasks.
At seven the guests started to arrive, and sounds of music and laughter drifted down from upstairs. The barmen and the Swedish waitress vanished to take care of their duties, occasionally reappearing with tales of famous faces who were gracing the party. The dirty dishes mounted up as the party progressed. Carrie’s hands were red and raw from constant immersion in hot soapy water.
At ten thirty the butler appeared in the kitchen. He looked around the assorted help, his eyes falling on Carrie. “Do you know how to fetch coats?”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind. You can’t possibly be worse than the girl they sent. Come along.”
She dried her hands on a dishtowel and followed the butler up the familiar stairs.
“In there,” he commanded, giving her a little push into a cloakroom filled with fur coats. “And when I tell you what I want, see if you can find it—and quick.”
It was better than washing up.
Esther and Gordon Becker were among the last guests to leave. “Wonderful party, Bernard darling,” Esther gushed.
Bernard smiled. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I certainly did, and Gordon. Didn’t you, darling?”
Gordon snapped back to attention. He had been admiring the black girl who was handing their coats to the butler. Very simple and plain with her long hair braided down her back. Something vaguely familiar about her….
“Carrie!” Esther suddenly exclaimed. “Still here? How on earth will you get through the day tomorrow?”
“Who is she?” Gordon asked.
“Our maid, darling.” Esther shrieked with laughter. “Doesn’t even recognize his own servants! Can you believe it, Bernard?” Her double chin wobbled along with her mammoth breasts.
“Who recognizes servants?” Gordon joined in with his wife’s laughter, determined not to be made a fool of. “They come and go like rabbits!”
Bernard Dimes’s meticulous mind was ticking over. Carrie? The name rang a distant bell. The girl’s face was also familiar. Carrie? He hated not being able to remember. “Do you mind if she stays on a little longer?” he asked Esther.
“Of course not! Only joking! Carrie will be up bright and early whatever time she goes to bed.” She threw her a patronizing smile. “Won’t you, dear?” Then, in a loud whispered aside to whoever was listening, “The girl is a gem! Works like a black!” Giggle. Giggle. “Oops! Must watch what I say!”
Carrie decided there and then that she was going to look for another job. Mrs. Esther Becker could clear up her own mess.
Much later, when the last guest had departed, Bernard Dimes sat alone in his study savoring a glass of his favorite brandy. He rang for the butler. “Roger, that girl helping you with the coats. If she’s still here, bring her to see me.”
“Yes, sir. She was very helpful,” Roger remarked, “the kind of maid we need.”
Bernard was amused. “Do you want me to ask Mrs. Becker if she’ll relinquish her?”
“A good idea, sir.”
Bernard laughed aloud. “I’m surprised at you, Roger. Stealing staff is hardly your style.”
Roger remained implacable. “I know, sir. But sometimes it is the only answer.”
Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Smith swayed drunkenly as she packed a tasty selection of hors d’oeuvres in a paper bag ready to take home. Leftover food and drink was one of the perks of the night.
The two barmen were crating empty bottles, and the Swedish waitress had changed into a daring yellow dress and sat reading a movie magazine by the back door. Her husband, the chef, was packing away his equipment.
Carrie stacked clean dishes into a cupboard.
One of the barmen sidled over to her. “A pretty gal like you wanna have a little fun one night?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Well?” he persisted.
She shook her head.
He was about to pursue the point when the butler appeared.
“Mr. Dimes would like to see you upstairs, Carrie. Right now.”
Gino
1937
Gino did not enjoy the trip. He did not enjoy the wedding. He hated being closeted in a hotel with Cindy, and after an explosive fight they returned to New York early, hardly on speaking terms.