An Italian Wife by Ann Hood

Author:Ann Hood
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

FOR THE PREVIOUS five Christmases, since Connie married Vincent Palazzo, she stayed home in their small white Cape in Middletown, Connecticut. She did not make seven fishes on Christmas Eve; she made a rib roast and roasted potatoes and string beans amandine. On Christmas morning she served Vincent and Davy French toast and maple bacon. Her family did not eat in the kitchen, they ate in the dining room on the china she bought piece by piece with S & H Green Stamps that she dutifully pasted into a book, filling one after another so that she could get the matching gravy boat and teacups and salad plates—all creamy white with a border of tiny off-white raised flowers. All perfect.

When Connie first met Vincent, she believed he was a man who was going places. By that time, everyone considered Connie a spinster. Twenty-five, without even a prospect of a husband. Twenty-five and a virgin. The only men who asked her out were older, widowers or bachelors with odd habits.

Then Vincent walked into the office where Connie worked in the secretarial pool with his case of Royal typewriters and Connie felt something she had never felt before. An almost unpleasant tug in her groin. It made her squirm in her seat. Vincent—dark-olive skin and green eyes that bulged like a bullfrog’s; stiff, shoe-polish-black hair that she would learn only after they were married was a toupee that sat on a mannequin head at night; short, just her height, and round like a barrel—Vincent sat across from her waiting to see the procurer of office supplies and Connie squirmed. She wished she’d curled her hair, freshened her lipstick, worn the sweater with the pearl buttons that looked so flattering.

He smiled at her, showing a row of white teeth as small as baby’s teeth.

“How do you like that Remington?” he said, his voice smooth and silky, a voice you wanted to touch.

Connie cleared her throat. “My what?” she asked.

He pointed his chin in the direction of her typewriter. “The Remington,” he said.

She realized her fingers, which had been busily typing when he appeared, had sunk into the keys like melted wax.

“It’s a fine typewriter,” she managed to say. Then she blurted, “I graduated from Katherine Gibbs, top in my class.”

Vincent nodded approvingly. “Very impressive,” he said. “Did you learn on a Remington?”

That tug in her groin. It was all she could focus on. An image of the rows of girls—Katie Gibbs girls—in their business-smart clothes, fingers sailing across the keys: the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

“I’m a Royal man,” Vincent said, leaning closer to her.

She caught a whiff of cologne, strong and spicy.

“Yes,” Connie said, putting her hands in her lap as if that might subdue the tugging. She noticed his hat resting on one of his knees, black with a small red feather in the ribbon.

“Just got promoted to manager at the factory over in Connecticut,” he said proudly.

His boasting, his confidence, only made the tug stronger. She found herself leaning toward him too.

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