Chapter 12: The Party

I made the dress that week, over two nights at Pasquale's kitchen table.

Black wool crepe from the remnant bin, twelve dollars. Long sleeves. A plain boat neck.

Pasquale held the pins.

Dad held opinions.

"Too plain," Dad said.

"It's supposed to be plain."

"Your mother would've put a bow on it."

"Mom put a bow on the dog."

He laughed and then held his ribs and called me a monster.

Saturday night Damiano was waiting at the bottom of the stairs in a black suit.

He looked at the dress.

He looked at me.

For one second his face wasn't closed.

Then it was.

"The car's out front," he said.

The party was in the ballroom of an old hotel on Michigan Avenue.

Chandeliers. A string quartet. Three hundred people in black tie.

Half of them went silent when Damiano walked in.

The other half went silent when they saw who was on his arm.

I knew some of them. Men who used to shake my father's hand at the Christmas party.

Their wives. Their daughters who'd gone to my school.

The whispers came after us across the room.

Damiano didn't seem to hear any of it.

He walked me to a table near the front and pulled out my chair.

Then he went to talk to men in dark suits who stood up when he came over.

I sat alone with a glass of water.

At nine Vito Lazzaro took the stage, red-faced and grinning, a glass of champagne in his ringed hand.

"Thank you all for coming," he boomed. "Tonight our family has something to celebrate."

He held out his hand.

Serena glided up the steps in the cream silk.

It fit her perfectly.

She took the microphone from her father.

"Everybody knows Damiano and I have been together a long time," she said. "Tonight we're making it official."

She found him in the crowd.

"Baby? Come up here."

Every head turned.

Damiano set down his drink.

He walked through the crowd and up the steps.

Serena held out her left hand to him, palm down, smiling.

He took the microphone out of her other hand.

"There's no engagement," he said.

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