Chapter 15: Stand Up

Mauro didn't argue.

He sat on my fitting box with his hands hanging between his knees.

"No," he said. "I never did."

"So don't say sorry to me in a back room at night."

He looked up.

"Where, then?"

"Where they laughed."

He was quiet a long time.

Then he stood and buttoned his jacket.

"Sunday," he said. "Come to dinner."

"Why would I sit at that table again?"

"Because I'm asking you." He stopped at the door. "I'm going to find out who else is in it with him. Give me a week."

"And if you call him first?"

He looked at the page under my lamp.

"I won't."

I didn't see him all week.

On Monday the roast pork sandwich was on my cutting table at seven.

On Tuesday too.

By Saturday Annette said I'd gained a pound of provolone.

On Sunday I drove to Packer Park at three in my navy dress.

I didn't use my key.

The housekeeper opened the door and squeezed my hand.

"He told me to set your place," she said.

The dining room was full.

Twelve men, the long table, the gravy boat from Florida.

Gabriella was at Mauro's right hand in black velvet.

Sergio was at his left, carving.

Neither of them looked surprised to see me.

Sergio smiled with his whole face.

"Sweetheart. Sit, sit, before the macaroni gets cold."

My chair was at the foot of the table.

It was the chair I'd had for six years.

I didn't sit.

Mauro stood up.

The room went quiet one voice at a time.

He didn't lift his glass.

"Three years ago," he said, "my wife stood up at this table and told me she loved me."

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