For us, it means our lives belong to Celesta’s.”
“This is normal.” Hard work had never bothered Rosa. Outside the restaurant there was not much to her life, and she had convinced herself that she liked it that way. She had Pop, of course, who at sixty-five was as independent as ever, accusing her of fussing over him. Her brother Robert was in the navy, currently stationed with his family overseas. Her other brother, Sal, was also in the navy, a Catholic priest serving as chaplain. Her father and brothers, nieces and nephews, were her family.
But Celesta’s was her life.
She stole a glance at Jason and Linda, and fancied she could actually see stars in their eyes. Sometimes, when Rosa looked at the happy couples holding hands across the tables in her restaurant, she felt a bittersweet ache. And then she always pretended, even to herself, that it didn’t matter.
“I give you two months off every year,” she pointed out to Vince.
“Yeah, January and February.”
“Best time of year in Miami,” she reminded him. “Or are you and Butch ready to give up your condo there?”
“All right, all right. I get your point. I wouldn’t have it any other—”
The sound of car doors slamming interrupted them. Rosa sent another discreet look at the slanted computer screen under the podium. Ten-fifteen.
She stepped back while Vince put on his trademark smile. “So much for making an early night of it.” The comment slipped between his teeth, while his expression indicated he’d been waiting all his life for the next group of patrons.
Rosa recognized them instantly. Not by name, of course. The summer crowds at the shore were too huge for that. No, she recognized them because they were a “type.” Summer people. The women exuded patrician poise and beauty. The tallest one wore her perfectly straight golden-blond hair caught, seemingly without artifice, in a thin band. Her couture clothes—a slim black skirt, silk blouse and narrow kid leather flats—had a subtle elegance. Her two friends were stylish clones of her, with uniformly sleek hair, pale makeup, sleeves artfully rolled back just so. They pulled off the look as only those to the manor born could.
Rosa and Vince had grown up sharing their summers with people like this. To the seasonal visitors, the locals existed for the sole purpose of serving those who belonged to the venerable old houses along the pristine, unspoiled shore just as their forebears had done a century before. They were the ones whose charity galas were covered by Town & Country magazine, whose weddings were announced in the New York Times. They were the ones who never thought about what life was like for the maid who changed their sheets, the fisherman who brought in the day’s catch, the cleaners who ironed their Sea Isle cotton shirts.
Vince nudged her behind the podium. “Yachty. They practically scream Bailey’s Beach.”
Rosa had to admit, the women would not look out of place at the exclusive private beach at the end of Newport’s cliff walk. “Be nice,” she cautioned him.
“I was born nice.”
The door opened and three men joined the women. Rosa offered the usual smile of greeting. Then her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell upon a tall, sandy-haired man. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. She hoped—prayed—it was a trick of the light. But it wasn’t, and her expression froze as recognition chilled her to the bone.
Big deal, she thought, trying not to hyperventilate. She was bound to run into him sooner or later.
“Uh-oh,” Vince muttered, assuming a stance that was now more protective than welcoming. “Here come the Montagues.”
Rosa struggled against panic, but she was losing the battle. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. You’re totally in control.
That was a lie. In the blink of an eye, she was eighteen again, aching and desperate over the boy who’d broken her heart.
“I’ll tell them we’re closed,” Vince said.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Rosa hissed at him.
“I’ll beat the crap out of him.”
“You’ll offer them a table, and make it a good one.” Straightening her shoulders, Rosa looked across the room and locked eyes with a man she hadn’t seen in ten years, a man she hoped she would never see again.
Two
“You asked for it.” As though flipping a switch, Vince turned on the charm, stepping forward to greet the latest arrivals. “Welcome to Celesta’s,” he said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, we just want to drink,” said one of the men, and the women snickered at his devastating wit.
“Of course,” said Vince, stepping back to gesture them toward the bar. “Please seat yourself.”
The men and their dates headed to the bar. Rosa thought about the nautilus shell, displayed like a museum artifact. Would he recognize it? Did she care?
Just when she thought she’d survived the moment, she realized one man held back from the group. He was just standing there, watching her intently, with a look that made her shiver.
Her task, of course, was simple. She had to pretend he had no effect on her. This was easier said than done, though, because she had trouble keeping her feelings in. Long ago, she’d resigned herself to the fact that she was a walking cliché—a curly-haired, big-breasted, emotional Italian American.
However, cool disregard was the only message she wanted to send at the moment. She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.
“Hello, Alex,” she said.
“Rosa.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile.
He’d been drinking. She wasn’t sure how she knew. But her practiced eye took in the tousled sandy hair, the boyish face now etched with character, the sea-blue eyes settling a gaze on her that, even now, made her shiver. He looked fashionably rumpled in an Oxford shirt, chinos and Top-Siders.
She couldn’t bear to see him again. And oh, she hated that about herself. She wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be the indomitable Rosa Capoletti, named last year’s Restaurateur of the Year by Condé Nast. Self-made Rosa Capoletti, the woman who had it all—a successful business, wonderful friends, a loving family. She was strong and independent, liked and admired. Influential, even. She headed the merchants’ committee for the Winslow Chamber of Commerce.
But Rosa had a secret, a terrible secret she prayed no one would discover. She had never gotten over Alexander Montgomery.
“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine,’” she said. She pulled it off, too, with jaunty good humor.
“You know each other?” The woman with the Marcia Brady hair had come back to claim him.
He didn’t take his eyes off Rosa. She refused to allow herself to look away.
“We did,” he said. “A long time ago.”
Rosa
