crowded, while in the piazza across the street a band played—the same one the Calabrias had engaged for their daughter’s wedding and really quite good, though the trumpet player had started playing jazz after a few drinks, and who could dance to that?
Among the friends, neighbors, relatives and well-wishers attending were such important people as Adolfo Oenusyfides, Commissioner of Roads; Signore Calabria, who owned three fishing boats, as well as the cafe´ where the celebration was held; and several members of the Vinnelli family headed by old Porfino, whose son was a doctor and whose niece had married a rich American and lived in Los Angeles with the movie stars.
If Cletus was inclined to congratulate himself rather too often on the success of the party, his friends overlooked this while their wives complimented his wife on having had the foresight to ask Signora Serminio to stand as godmother sixteen years ago. For a fioreanno is always given by the child’s godmother, and Signora Serminio was herself a person of importance now, the owner of a fine pharmacy and the mother of a son with a promising career at the palace.
And if a few people glanced at one of the guests and muttered under their breath, most were more tolerant. Maybe Rose Giaberti was una strega, maybe not. Her mother had been, but young Rose did not sell charms and potions and fortunes as her mother had done, and if she didn’t attend Mass as often as she ought, what young person did? Certainly she was lively and friendly, with good manners. And she always brought a nice gift to a fioreanno.
She had brought more than a prettily wrapped box with her that night.
‘‘You should try the souvlakia,’’ Rose said, indicating the spicy shish kebab, one of many offerings on the groaning buffet table. ‘‘Emil—he’s the cook here—has a wonderful way with lamb.’’
Obediently Drew placed one on his plate, but slid her a wry glance. ‘‘I think you just want to see me dribble sauce on my shirt.’’
She grinned. ‘‘No, I wanted to see if you’d eat it with your fingers or struggle with a knife and fork.’’
Rose had brought Drew to the fioreanno after giving him the same amount of notice as he’d given her last night. None. She’d told him something of what to expect on the way here, assuming that, while he might have heard of the fioreanni, he wouldn’t have attended one. The upper classes didn’t. A fioreanno was like the quinzeñero celebrated by young Mexican girls, or the coming-out ball given young ladies of his class in England. His sister, she supposed, would have been presented to society. This was much the same thing.
She’d also given him a hint of how to dress, since he’d done that much for her. Casual, she’d said, and for herself she’d chosen a sleeveless sundress, full-skirted for dancing, baticked in the deep colors of a dying sunset. She wore one of her favorite necklaces with it, a copper-and-brass design of her own.
Of course, what passed for casual with Drew stood out in this company every bit as much as she’d failed to blend with royalty at the palace last night. He looked every inch the relaxed aristocrat in khaki chinos and a shirt of unbleached linen that had probably cost more than her favorite little black dress.
They carried their laden plates to one of the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. A short, middle-aged man sat alone at a nearby table—Drew’s bodyguard. He’d followed them here in a tiny Fiat and was looking everywhere except at them.
He was the only one who wasn’t watching them. Amused, Rose sat at the little table. ‘‘Will you dribble sauce on yourself, do you think?’’
‘‘Undoubtedly, if there’s a photographer from the Tattler or Le Stelle within flashbulb range. Otherwise I may manage to muddle through. Which brings up a question,’’ he said, putting down his plate so he could draw out her chair. ‘‘Why did you introduce me to our host and hostess as Drew, no last name? You said your neighbors all know who I am.’’
‘‘This way they can pretend they don’t. More comfortable for everyone that way. Rather like the way your aunt, uncle and cousins pretended last night that they didn’t know that I am, at best, that crazy woman who claims to be psychic. Or at worst…’’ She lifted her eyes to his as he sat across from her at the tiny table. ‘‘The worst would make me something unspeakable.’’
‘‘I don’t believe the worst,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘As for what my family believes, Lorenzo asked me to—’’
‘‘Please.’’ She put her hand on his wrist. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said anything before we’ve had a chance to taste Emil’s souvlakia. I didn’t intend to. If His Grace asked you to convey some message to me, you can tell me after the party, all right? For now, let’s eat too much and talk about our neighbors and enjoy ourselves. That’s what a fioreanno is for.’’
He didn’t respond right away. She wouldn’t have known what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if her fingers hadn’t been resting on his wrist, where his pulse beat. It had picked up when she touched him.
As had hers.
‘‘All right,’’ he said, but it was his mouth that carried his smile this time, not his eyes. ‘‘Tell me about your neighbors, since none of mine are nearby to gossip about.’’
So she did. While they ate souvlakia—he did use his fingers and didn’t get any spots on his shirt—she told him brief, amusing stories about some of the people she knew in the crowd. And insisted he uphold his end by talking about people he knew back in England. You could learn a lot, she knew, about a person by the way he spoke of others.
At first he resisted. ‘‘I’m not asking for secrets,’’ she told him severely, spreading melitzana on a slice of crusty bread and handing it to him. ‘‘Or anything hurtful. Just the sort of thing that everyone knows already. You know…who’s been married five times, who is getting married—and why, if possible. That makes it more interesting. Who collects Elvis memorabilia, or better yet, thinks she’s spoken to Elvis recently.’’
Amusement softened his face and made his green eyes bright. ‘‘The sort of thing they’d put in the Tattler, if the Tattler were ever to do an edition about normal people?’’
‘‘Exactly. Though you can omit the candid photos.’’
Though his stories were short, they revealed a dry wit and tolerant acceptance blended with a good deal of perception. She listened, she chuckled at times, and she watched the strong bones of his wrists and the way the candlelight gilded the messy curls of his hair.
Impulsively she asked, ‘‘Why do you wear your hair long? I like it, but it doesn’t seem to fit.’’
If her question surprised him, it didn’t show. But for a second, she thought he looked uneasy. ‘‘I don’t like getting it cut. It’s childish, of course. As soon as I’m told to sit still and behave, I get restless.’’
It was easy to forget that he wasn’t a handsome man or a charming one. He was too self-contained for charm, and his face was too long, his shoulders broad but too bony for true masculine beauty. But there was something in the way he moved that drew the eye, something compelling in the way those uneven features were knit together, something in even his silences that fascinated…and then he smiled. He smiled, and you forgot whatever silly ideas you’d once held about what was and wasn’t beautiful.
They were interrupted a few times. Drew watched their latest
