Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,18
was my color. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that.
What had become of my stranger? Probably squiring swan-necked debutantes in limousines, drinking champagne from their slippers and that bullshit, I assured myself. He looked like he had a pedigree worthy of the royal family. What could he possibly want with a five-foot-two daughter of immigrants?
After the show, I sat at the dressing table as was my habit, going over the play, humming and removing makeup, when Richard rushed into the room in a fluster. His wife had decided to attend the performance with some friends. He ran off to intercept them while I wiped the last traces of make up away. My face looked pale and oh so very young. Who was I? Some little wop from Brooklyn he’d picked up from his acting class. She was older, rich and for-god-sakes married to him.
The door opened and they piled in, three women and two men besides Richard. The women all had that look, polished and expensive, like yachts. The youngest was about forty, tall, blonde and if not beautiful, elegant. Katherine was hardly the gorgon I’d expected.
She cooed over me. “Isn’t she just adorable? Where did you find that destructive streak, darling? We should all watch out for her.” The others tittered. “Of course, Richard always has a knack for spotting young talent.”
Her subtext was clear. She knew. I wasn’t the first; she’d been through it all before. It was clearly a warning for me to stay put in my proper place. It was like I’d swallowed a baseball, one with the sawdust leaking out. My eyes started to tear up as I bit my lip.
A smug smile fluttered over Katherine’s face. “Come Richard, we’ve reservations at Twenty One. Goodbye Miss Disantini— good luck on the rest of your run.”
She didn’t mean the play, I assure you. I waited until they’d gone before I put my head down on the dressing table and cried. He’d never leave her for me. I was a naive little fool to believe it. After this catharsis, I was hell-bent on revenge and wished for some way of getting back at Richard. As I always say, be careful what you wish for…
My tears dried, I put on my new clothes intending to join my friends at Salvi’s. I left the theatre and stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. Then, like some genie, he materialized before me on the sidewalk. My prayers were answered, but by whom I’ll never know, because it was him, my beautiful stranger, six-four of him towering over me. I shivered over his sheer size, again I felt faint. He was as foreign to my Italian-American sensibilities as an extra terrestrial, the antithesis of everything I was. Boy, how opposites can attract.
He spoke in that gorgeous drawl, “Miss Disantini! I looked in on your performance again but I’m afraid I was unable to speak with you. The stagehand told me you were otherwise engaged. I do apologize.”
I tried to sound casual. As if I could really fool him. “Oh, it’s you, Mr?”
“Sinclair.” Sin-cleah. I might have died, definitely not from my neighborhood. “Are you on your way somewhere?”
Some-wheah, he says and I’m melting like honey over hot biscuits. I milked it for all it was worth. “Home.” I sniffled for effect. “Plans kinda fell through.”
He suppressed a smile, obviously not overwhelmed by my tragic performance. “Delightful— I mean for me. May I invite you for supper?”
Suppah, breakfast, anywheah.
“Lovely, may I suggest a place?” My, I was being bold but my wish required being seen.
“Of course, I intended to ask for your recommendation.”
So-o-o accommodating. I wanted to accommodate him right then and there. “Well, it’s probably not what you’re used to— but the food is great, real Italian. It’s just right around the corner,” I said, longing to show him some real Italian cooking straight through to dessert.
Knowing I was up to something, he offered his arm. “Lead on, Miss Disantini… ”
And off we went on a little date with destiny…
Salvi’s was crowded and noisy, one of those great little places with tacky paintings of the Italian countryside on the wall and signed photographs of celebrities. My glossy was displayed along with the rest. Mr. Salvi had a soft spot for me. My friends were seated at their regular table trading insults and witticisms, imbibing vast quantities of cheap Chianti. I waved to them. They applauded and whistled. We were duly noted.