Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

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      Angela turned, and her face lit up. “Ciao, bella!” She made it sound light and natural, as if she’d only seen me the other day. “I didn’t recognize you! What have you done to your hair?”

      The tension in my chest eased. Still, I couldn’t help noticing the wedding band that flashed, catching the morning sun as Angela expertly whipped the string around a cake box and tied it in a knot.

      “Mamma mia!” Angela’s mother gasped, holding her palms to the heavens. “Maeve! What have you done to your beautiful red hair?”

      All eyes turned.

      “I cut it and … well …” I was turning red. “It’s for a job, actually.”

      Pina snorted. “What, are you a Ziegfeld girl now?”

      “Not exactly. A salesclerk. But no Irish.”

      There was a time when the city was full of signs declaring “No Irish Need Apply.” We were considered little more than vermin. Then the Italians came, and suddenly we moved up a little in the world, only not quite far enough.

      “Yeah, well, I’m surprised to see you here at all.” Pina folded her arms across her chest. “I thought this town wasn’t good enough for you. That only New York City would do.”

      “Stop it!” Angela glared at her sister. “Just because you’ve never left Boston!”

      “I don’t need to leave Boston. And evidently neither do you!” Pina laughed, nodding at me. “I hope you left a trail of bread crumbs so you could find your way home.” Pina always had a tongue like a stiletto blade. Even as a kid, she had a preternatural talent for verbal vivisection.

      “Basta!” Her mother shot Pina a look. “We’ve missed you. Your mother told us you had important business in New York and couldn’t come to the wedding,” she continued evenly, resting her hands on her hips. “We’re sorry you couldn’t get away.”

      Guilt stung beneath my smile.

      “I’m sorry too. I mean …” I looked across at Angela; I was speaking to her more than anyone else. “I was working as a private secretary for a very wealthy man. Quite a difficult character, very demanding … I wanted to come, really I did.”

      We all knew I wasn’t being honest. My story didn’t explain why I hadn’t written or called.

      “Well, I’m just glad you’re here now,” Angela said, in that way she had of simply closing the door on anything difficult or unpleasant. “It’s good to have you back.” Then, popping a fresh loaf of bread into a paper bag and handing it across the counter to Mr. Ventadino, she flashed me a naughty smile. “La mia bella dai capelli biondi!”

      “Ah, bella!” Mr. Ventadino laughed, eyeing me up and down. “Molto bella!”

      The old men at the tables by the window laughed too, and Mrs. Russo rolled her eyes. “Girls! Comportatevi bene!”

      Comportatevi bene—Italian for “behave yourself”—was the constant refrain of our childhood. When we were together, five minutes didn’t go by without Mrs. Russo saying it, usually with a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, ready to whack one or both of us on the back of the head.

      Mrs. Russo turned to me, her face serious. She had a way of looking straight into your eyes, as if she could see right down into your soul. “Come stai davvero?”

      “Bene. Meglio, grazie. E tu?” I answered.

      When Mrs. Russo spoke in Italian, I knew all was forgiven.

      “Bene, bene.” As she counted change and handed it to Mr. Ventadino, she shook her finger at us. “You girls need to grow up. And you!” She gave Mr. Ventadino a dark look too. “Dovreste vergognarvi di voi stesso! And how is your mother, Mae? I hope she’s well.”

      Mrs. Russo had the knack of switching between conversations; she could reprimand Mr. Ventadino and still set an example for her daughter of civilized manners without missing a beat.

      I stepped aside so Mr. Ventadino could slink past. “She’s fine, thank you.”

      Mrs. Russo always asked after my mother, even though she didn’t entirely approve of her. After all the years they’d known each other, theirs was nonetheless a formal acquaintance, maintained by courtesy rather than affection. I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Ma had never married again, a fundamental feeling Mrs. Russo had about the wrongness of a young widow raising a child on her own when she could have easily taken another husband and had more children. In her world, independence was an extravagance, a kind of selfishness.

      In truth, I’d always been torn between Ma and the formidable Maddalena Russo. I’d spent so much time in the Russos’ household growing up that she was a second mother to me—only of the more traditional variety.

      Small and strong, fiercely disciplined, and certain of everything, Maddalena Russo never doubted, never questioned. She knew. The Russo home was strict, loud, vivid, and real. Nothing else existed nor needed to exist beyond the North End. It was an entirely self-sufficient universe. When I was younger, I used to pretend that I’d been left on the Russos’ doorstep one night as a baby, and they’d adopted me as their own. It was a betrayal I couldn’t resist, and my affection was transparent to everyone—including my mother.

      “Is that a new hat?” Mrs. Russo nodded approvingly. “Very handsome!”

      “It used to have a net, but it was torn … my mother fixed it for me.” I was babbling. “Anyway, I stopped in for a zaletti. I’m celebrating, you see. I got a job today.”

      “Congratulations!” Angela beamed.

      Pina passed a tray of fresh biscotti to her mother. “What you need is a husband!”

      “Maybe I’m not the marrying type.”

      Mrs. Russo clucked reprovingly. “Why do you say that? Any man would be happy to have you!”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Of course you know!” Pina and her mother looked at each other and laughed. “Don’t talk crazy!”

      Reaching over, Angela handed a zaletti wrapped in waxed paper across to me. “I’ll stop by later.”

      “I’d like that.”

      I tried to give her a nickel for the zaletti, but she wouldn’t take it. “Go on, now. Tell your mother the good news.”

      I lowered my voice. “I really am sorry, Ange. About missing your wedding.” I knew I’d hurt her, and I knew too that she had too much pride to let me see how much. “How was it?”

      “It was lovely.”

      “You should’ve been there.” Pina wouldn’t leave us alone for a minute. “Oh, that’s right! You were too busy taking notation for millionaires. One of these days, Jean Harlow, you’re going to have to wake up and realize you’re just like the rest of us.”

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