Chapter 5: Barren

I closed my fist around the key and put it in my apron pocket.

"Not here," Bianca said without moving her lips.

Outside, the Corsetti driver had turned his head toward the shop window.

"Friday," she said, louder, in an ordinary voice. "Can you have the hem done by Friday, Mrs. Brandolini?"

"I'll have it done," I said, and I pinned the rest of the gown while my heart beat in my ears.

On Friday night I wore black.

I wore the good black dress I'd made myself, plain and fitted to the knee, with my mother's small gold hoops and no necklace.

Sandro drove me to Taylor Street.

Corsetti's restaurant had been closed to the public for the evening, and every table inside it was set with white linen and candles.

Forty people stood in the dining room holding glasses.

Rocco was by the bar with two capos.

He turned when I came in, and his eyes went from my face to my dress and stayed there one second longer than a polite man's would.

I did not look at Paola, who stood near the kitchen door, and who gave me a very small nod.

A woman in a green silk dress took my coat and led me to the long table.

On each place was a card in a silver stand.

The first card on the right side of the head chair said BIANCA CORSETTI.

The card beside it, one place down, said MRS. BRANDOLINI.

I stood there and looked at it.

"I'm sure there's been a mistake," I said pleasantly.

"No mistake," said the woman in green. "The bride sits at the Don's right at her own engagement. It's tradition."

"It's tradition at a wedding," I said. "This isn't one. And it's not a tradition in my marriage."

I picked up my own card, walked around the table, and put it down in the silver stand at the first place on Rocco's right.

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