Chapter 18: Villa Rosa

The Villa Rosa had a red carpet on the steps and a camera crew on the lawn.

I saw the Channel Ten van before I saw the doors.

Elio walked a half step behind me in the only suit I had ever seen him wear.

His hand hovered near my back and did not quite touch it.

The green dress moved when I did.

It was seven o'clock on the twenty-fifth of October, and the line to get in ran down the steps and out to the gravel.

People looked at me, and then at their phones, and then at me.

Somebody said, "That's her," and somebody else said it back.

The photograph had been up for seventeen hours.

I had counted every hour in my aunt's kitchen and refused to cry over any of them.

"Don't read the comments," Elio said at my ear.

"I did."

"I'm sorry."

"Eleven thousand people think I climbed into a stranger's truck three weeks after burying my child."

I lifted my chin.

"I'll live."

At the door a man in a black blazer checked a tablet.

He looked at the screen, and at my face, and at the screen again.

The photograph on it was from my hospital bracelet, a washed-out woman with matted hair.

"Name?" he said.

"She's with me," said the baker, who had appeared at my elbow in a purple coat and a large silver brooch.

"Table nine. Ten seats, paid in August. My sister's got the flu, and this is her replacement."

"Ma'am, I have a note."

"I have a receipt." She held it up.

"The parish office gave it to me. Do you want to explain to Father why you're turning away his raffle?"

The man looked at the line behind us.

He looked at the camera on the lawn.

"Table nine," he said, and let us through.

Inside, the ballroom was gold and white, with a hundred round tables and a lit chandelier.

A long head table ran across the stage.

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