have asked at that point, but you didn’t. You could see that the subject of my brother had upset me. I believe you were too compassionate to keep me cornered. Anyway, you’d been given an answer, and it was plausible enough. I could see that you suspected there was more to the story, but in your kindness, you chose to believe what I had told you—or at least not to chase any further information.
Mercifully, you dropped the subject, and we went back to planning your wedding dress.
What a beautiful dress it was, too.
I would spend the next two weeks working on it. I searched the city myself for the most stunning antique obi I could find (wide, red, long, and embroidered with golden phoenixes). It was criminally expensive, but there was nothing else in New York like it. (I didn’t charge your father for it—don’t worry!)
I made the gown itself out of a creamy, clingy, charmeuse satin. I fashioned a fitted slip beneath it with a built-in brassiere that would subtly make you feel more held together. I wouldn’t let my assistants, or even Marjorie, so much as lay a finger on that gown. I sewed every stitch and seam on my own, bent over my work in something like prayerful silence.
And as much as I know that you hated ornamentation, I could not help myself. At the spot where the two bands of fabric crossed your heart, I sewed one little pearl, taken from a necklace that had once belonged to my grandmother.
A small gift, Angela—from my family to yours.
THIRTY-THREE
It was December of 1977 when I got your letter saying that your father had died.
I’d sensed already that something was terribly wrong. I hadn’t heard from Frank in almost two weeks, which was highly unusual. In fact, in the twelve years of our relationship, it had never happened before. I was growing concerned—very concerned—but didn’t know what to do about it. I had never called Frank at home, and since he had retired from the police force, I couldn’t phone him at the precinct. He didn’t have any friends that I knew of, so there was nobody I could contact, to ask if he was all right. I couldn’t exactly go knocking on his door in Brooklyn.
And then came your note, addressed to me, care of L’Atelier.
I’ve saved it, all these years.
Dear Vivian:
It is with a heavy heart that I write to tell you that my father passed away ten days ago. It was a sudden death. He was out walking one night around our neighborhood, as he was wont to do, and he collapsed on the sidewalk. It would appear that he had a heart attack, although we did not ask for an autopsy. This has been a great shock to me and to my mother, as I’m sure you can imagine. My father had his frailties, to be sure, but they were never of a physical nature. He had such stamina! I thought he would live forever. We held a small service for him at the same church where he was christened, and he has been buried in Green-Wood Cemetery, next to his parents. Vivian, I apologize. It was only after the funeral that I realized I should have contacted you immediately. I know that you and my father were dear friends. Surely, he would have wanted you to be alerted. Please forgive this tardy note. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news and I’m sorry that I didn’t get word to you sooner. If there is anything that I, or my family, can ever do for you, please let me know.
Sincerely, Angela Grecco
You had kept your maiden name.
Don’t ask me why, but I noticed that right away—before I had even fully registered that he was gone.
Good for you, Angela, I thought. Always keep your own name!
Then the news hit me that Frank was gone, and I did just what you might imagine I would do: I dropped to the floor and I wept.
Nobody wants to hear about anybody else’s grief (there’s a level at which everyone’s grief is exactly the same, anyhow), so I won’t go into details about my sadness. I will say only that the following few years were a very hard time for me—the hardest and loneliest I ever experienced.
Your father had been a peculiar man in life, Angela, and he was peculiar in death, too. He remained so vivid. He came to me in dreams, and he came to