Chapter 3
Perry chose white roses for my thirty-eighth birthday.
Not cream. Not ivory. White.
They stood in tall glass vases along the Bellandi dining table, their stems cut to the same length. The flowers had no scent.
Perry said that was better for dinner because perfume interfered with the wine.
She had moved my mother's blue bowl from the center of the table and replaced it with a silver sculpture shaped like two birds fighting over a branch.
"It's modern," Whit told me when he found me looking at it.
"It looks expensive."
"It was."
That seemed to satisfy him.
Twenty-four people came to dinner. Not friends. Family.
Sal Moretti arrived with his wife but without Maria, their daughter-in-law. Father Thomas sat beside Donna Elena Carmine.
Three captains brought their wives, all of whom kissed my cheek before looking toward Perry to see where they had been seated.
Perry had changed the arrangement twice.
For sixteen years, I had placed Donna Elena at Whit's right hand.
She was seventy years old, half-deaf in one ear, and still remembered which men had hidden during the Bellandi-Carmine war.
Moving her was not a question of comfort.
It was a statement.
That night, Perry put herself beside Whit.
Donna Elena's name card waited four seats down.
I stopped behind her chair.
"Elena sits here."
Perry was checking the table against a written list.
"She asked to be closer to Father Thomas."
"She asked to be where she could hear him."
"The acoustics are better on that side."
"There is a draft from the terrace doors."
Perry lifted her eyes.
"Then someone can close them."
Whit entered before I could answer.
Conversation softened around him.
He wore the dark charcoal suit I had ordered for his last council dinner and the burgundy tie I had given him at Christmas.
Perry touched his sleeve.
"You're in my seat," he told her.
She laughed and moved one chair to the left.
Into mine.
Whit noticed.
For one moment, I thought he would correct her. His gaze moved from Perry to me, then toward the guests waiting around the table.
"Sit beside Elena tonight, honey," he said. "She'll like the company."
Donna Elena heard him.
She looked down at her place card and slowly tore it in half.
Nobody spoke.
Elena sat where Perry had placed her. I took the chair beside her and unfolded my napkin across my lap.
Dinner arrived in careful courses, carried by staff Perry had hired for the evening.
The food was beautiful and almost warm.
Each plate held more empty china than meat.
Frankie Vale stared at three leaves of roasted radicchio as if they had personally insulted him.
"Is this the dinner," he asked, "or the decoration under it?"
His wife kicked him beneath the table.
Perry smiled.
"There are five courses."
"I hope one of them is food."
A few people laughed. Whit did too.
I did not need to defend Perry. She was capable of defending herself.
"The doctor told you to eat less red meat, Frankie," she said. "Consider this a birthday gift from Ines."
Every face turned toward me.
I had never discussed Frankie's health with Perry. I had discussed it with his wife, privately, after he became short of breath at a baptism.
Frankie's expression changed.
Not anger. Recognition.
One more quiet thing had moved from my hands into hers.
"I didn't choose the menu," I said.
Perry set down her wineglass.
"No. But you approve of people taking care of themselves."
It was a neat answer. Reasonable. Impossible to argue with without looking difficult.
Whit reached beneath the table and touched my knee.
"Let it go," he murmured.
That had become his answer to anything he had already decided I would lose.
After dinner, the staff cleared the plates and lowered the lights. Perry disappeared through the service door.
A minute later, she returned carrying a round cake on the same silver stand she had taken from me at the wedding.
Purple roses circled the edge.
INES was written across the top in white icing.
Everyone began to sing.
I looked at the cake while twenty-three voices moved through my name.
Perry had made the shells too tight around the bottom. Her roses were technically perfect, but each one faced the same direction.
Real flowers did not behave so well.
Whit stood and pulled out my chair.
"Make a wish."
I looked at him over the candles.
"What should I wish for?"
His smile slipped, then returned. "Whatever you want."
Perry stood on the other side of the cake, holding the ivory-handled knife.
I did not close my eyes.
I blew out the candles.
Applause filled the dining room.
Perry lifted the knife and positioned it above the first letter of my name.
I put my hand over hers.
"I'll cut it."
She held on for half a second too long.
Then she released the handle.
The room waited.
I pressed the knife through the I.
The blade met the silver board with a small scrape.
I cut again through the N and lifted the first slice onto Perry's plate.
"For the baker," I said.
Her cheeks colored, but she accepted it.
The next piece took half the E. I gave it to Whit.
He looked down at the broken white letter before passing the plate to one of his captains.
"Smaller pieces," Perry said. "There has to be enough for everyone."
"I know how many people are here."
"I'm only helping."
"You're counting."
Her smile tightened.
I cut another piece. Then another.
My name disappeared one letter at a time.
By the time the last guest had been served, only a white streak remained in the center of the purple icing.
My own slice was no wider than two fingers.
Whit raised his fork.
"To Ines," he said. "And to quieter years."
The men repeated it.
"To quieter years."
The women did not.
I tasted Perry's cake. The crumb was soft. The buttercream was smooth. She had learned more than I wanted to admit.
"It's good," I said.
Perry watched my face.
"Just good?"
"Very good."
Her shoulders eased, but her eyes stayed on me.
Praise from Whit had pleased her. Praise from me seemed to matter.
That made something between us more dangerous, not less.
The guests began leaving before ten.
Coats were brought from the hall.
Drivers pulled cars beneath the front awning while a cold rain tapped against the windows.
Donna Elena refused her cane and took my arm instead.
We walked slowly toward the side entrance.
At the door, she stopped.
"Saturday is twenty years since Carmine died," she said.
"I remember."
"I'm holding the memorial supper after Mass."
"Perry will want the guest list by tomorrow."
"I don't want Perry's guest list."
"Elena—"
"Your husband can give his sister every key in that house. He cannot make me open my door to her."
Her voice was soft, but the guard beside the entrance heard it. His eyes fixed on the rain.
Elena pulled a folded card from inside her glove and pressed it into my palm.
Thirty-two names were written on it in blue ink. Two of those families had not shared a table since 1998.
"You want me to arrange this?"
"I want everyone to leave alive."
Behind us, Perry laughed at something Whit said. The sound carried through the dining room that used to quiet when I entered it.
I folded the card once.
"Saturday," I said. "I'll handle it."
Donna Elena did not thank me.
Women like her did not thank you for keeping a promise you had already made sixteen years ago.
Her driver opened the rear door.
Before Elena climbed inside, she turned back.
"One more thing."
I waited.
"Maria Moretti never reached the shelter on Fifth Street."
The rain struck the awning harder.
"Where is she?"
Donna Elena lowered herself into the car.
"If I knew that," she said, "I wouldn't be asking whether you still had your keys."