Chapter 6: Sunday at the Sartos

"We are not going," Orazio said.

"We're going," I said.

We stood in the Beverly kitchen on Sunday afternoon, and Gwen sat on the counter, holding up two dresses.

"You want the green one," she said. "It hides the bump you don't have yet and says 'I know where the exits are.'"

"I've never said that about a dress."

"You will now."

Orazio hadn't moved from the doorway.

"Ettore doesn't invite people to supper," he said. "He invites them to be looked at."

"Then I'd like to look back."

"Why?"

"Because there's a Sarto somewhere in this, and I don't like not knowing his face."

He considered me for a long time.

"If you want to leave," he said, "you say so at any minute, and we go. Nunzio will have the car at the door."

"Thank you."

"I'm not doing it for your thanks."

"I know," I said. "That's why I'm saying it."

The Sarto house was in Elmwood Park, a long stone place with columns and a fountain nobody had turned off for winter.

Twenty-odd people sat down to a table that could have hosted a wedding.

Ettore Sarto sat at the head.

He was a barrel of a man in his fifties, with a silver crew cut and a tan in November.

A gold signet ring clicked against his glass every time he laughed.

He kissed Orazio on both cheeks, which Orazio endured.

Then he took my hand in both of his and held it a moment too long.

"The guest," he said. "Please. Sit by me."

"She sits by me," said Orazio.

"I'm only being hospitable." Ettore grinned at the table. "Everybody, this is Orazio's new friend. The, how do I put it, the rented belly."

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