What She Left Behind Read online

  “Would you like to join me and my friends at the diner?” she said, her voice raspy. “We always go for coffee after . . .”

  “I’d like that very much,” Bruno said. His hand brushed her jawline and he lifted her chin. “There’s just one thing I need to get out of the way first,” he said. Then he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her so hard his teeth nearly cut her lip. At first, she resisted, but then she kissed him back, melting into his arms. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses disappeared and all she could hear was her thundering heart. White lights flashed behind her lids, the warm tug of desire burning inside her pelvis. When they parted, he looked at her, breathless.

  “See,” he said. “Sometimes it’s better not to ask.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  Later, at the diner, they sat alone in a booth, drinking coffee and sharing a slice of apple pie. Lillian, Julia, and the rest of the crew talked and laughed in two oversized booths across the aisle, but Clara and Bruno barely realized they were there. He told her about his family back in Italy and his dreams for a successful life in America. She was surprised to hear herself opening up more than she had with anyone, except William. She confessed her frustrations with her parents, tearing up when she talked about her late, beloved brother. Bruno reached across the table and took her hand, saying he understood difficult family matters. More than anything, he wanted a family of his own, a family who loved each other and always got along, no matter what. She wanted the same thing.

  By the end of the night, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and by the end of the week, they were meeting at his apartment. By the end of the month, Bruno had become part of the gang and even Lillian’s brother, Joe, thought he was the cat’s pajamas.

  Now, standing outside her father’s office, Clara could hear her father’s low baritone on the other side of the carved oak door, rumbling like a slowing train, her mother whining and sniffing, their hushed exchange of angry words. They weren’t arguing with each other. They were talking about Clara, irritated that, for once, she wasn’t obediently going along with their plans.

  She put a protective hand over her lower abdomen, blinking against the moisture in her eyes. The engagement party was tomorrow night, complete with a photographer, a caterer, and all her parents’ important friends. Her father’s business partner, Richard Gallagher, had invited a dozen guests, eager to show off his son’s future bride. The invitations had been sent out ten days ago, and only a few responses had returned with a negative reply. James Gallagher, the man Clara was supposed to marry, had sent his late mother’s two-karat ring to be cleaned and polished, with instructions to add four extra diamonds for good measure. Ruth had picked out Clara’s dress and hired a hair stylist to do her hair before the party. Everything was going along exactly as her parents had planned. The guests would arrive thinking they were there to celebrate Henry and Ruth’s anniversary, and then, right before dinner, they’d be surprised by the announcement of James and Clara’s engagement.

  All at once, the rotten egg stench of fermenting water filled Clara’s nostrils and she nearly gagged. It was coming from the vase of flowers on the cherry end table. She stepped away from the door and put a hand over her nose and mouth, trying to calm her churning stomach. If she stood out in the hall much longer, rehearsing her speech, she’d either pass out or throw up. It was now or never.

  She knocked on the study door.

  “What is it?” her father bellowed.

  “It’s me,” she said, the words catching in her throat. She coughed softly, and then continued. “It’s me, Clara. May I come in?”

  “Enter!” her father said.

  Clara put her hand on the doorknob and began to turn it, then realized her other hand was still on her lower abdomen. Blood rose to her cheeks and she pushed her fists down to her sides. She knew her mother had been watching, scrutinizing the width of her waistline, gauging her appetite in the mornings, counting the number of feminine napkins below the bathroom sink. If Clara walked into her father’s study with a protective hand over her stomach, her mother would know in an instant that her worst fears had come true.

  Clara took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  Her mother sat on a rose-colored settee next to the brick fireplace, fanning herself with a flowered fan, her feet on a cushioned stool. As usual, her auburn hair was swept up in the Gibson girl style, pinned on top of her head in a loose bun. To Clara’s surprise, her mother’s floor-length, bustled skirt was pulled up, revealing pale ankles above pointy, lace-up boots. Ruth believed a proper woman should always keep her arms and legs covered, no matter what. She must be really upset, Clara thought.

  Clara wasn’t sure when it happened, but she had come to despise her mother’s Victorian dresses, her out-of-date hairdos, her cameo brooches and rings. Every traditional mannerism and old-fashioned saying reminded Clara of her mother’s prudish ways. Just the sound of Ruth’s layered skirts rustling along the hallways, her hard shoes clacking along the floors, was enough to make Clara cringe.

  Now, Ruth stood and ran her hands along her dress, her swan-billed corset extenuating her tiny waist. Instinctively, Clara put her shoulders back and held in her stomach, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice she wasn’t wearing a corset.

  Clara had been forced into her first corset at the age of six, after her mother measured her waist and said it was horribly thick and clumsy. Ruth had proclaimed that if preventive measures weren’t taken right away, Clara’s posture and health would suffer, and no man in his right mind would marry a romping girl with a waist measuring more than seventeen inches. That night, her mother laced her into heavily boned stays, insisting they come off only in times of illness, and to bathe. A week later, Clara undid the straps in the middle of the night so she could sleep. The next morning, Ruth found the corset lying on the floor next to Clara’s bed and yanked Clara out of a sound sleep to properly spank her. After that, every night for the next two weeks, she tied Clara’s wrists together with a silk handkerchief to keep her hands out of mischief. As Clara grew older, her corsets were drawn in tighter and tighter by the muscular arms of a sturdy, waiting maid. At eighteen, Clara’s waist measured seventeen inches, and still her mother scoffed, reminding her repeatedly that hers was sixteen, forgetting that Clara was two inches taller.

  Now, in her father’s study, Clara glanced in her mother’s direction. Ruth would be appalled if she found the bangles, hair feathers, and fringed dresses hidden in the back of Clara’s closet, tucked inside her steamer trunk beneath an old wool suit. As if reading Clara’s mind, Ruth sniffed and turned her gaze toward the window, pressing her lips into a thin, hard line. Her father raised his eyebrows, tapped a silver lighter on his desk, and chomped down on his cigar. As usual, he was wearing a chalk-striped business suit, his walrus mustache curling over his upper lip.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Clara released her fists and clasped her hands in front of her waist, trying to keep them from shaking.

  “May I speak to you about something?” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  Her mother mumbled under her breath and went to the window, her skirts rustling. She pulled back the curtain and pretended to look out.

  Henry took the cigar from his mouth. “If this is about tomorrow night,” he said, “the conversation is over. The party is going on as planned.”

  Clara swallowed, her stomach churning. “Of course!” she said. “As well it should! You and Mother haven’t had an anniversary party in years!”

  With that, her mother spun away from the window. “You know very well why we’re having the party,” she said. “It’s for you! And James! It’s the first time I’ve wanted to celebrate anything in months!”

  Clara grit her teeth, forcing her lips into something she hoped resembled a smile. “I know, Mother,” she said. “And I appreciate all your efforts. Really I do, it’s just . . .”

  “Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a
man like James willing to marry you?” Ruth said.

  Willing, Clara thought. Because I have so many shortcomings and faults no one in their right mind would ever marry me. Then again, maybe you’re right, Mother. James is not in his right mind. He’s a low-down, abusive womanizer. But what do you care, as long as he takes me off your hands? As long as he keeps me away from Bruno? Clara stepped toward her father’s desk, her cheeks and eyes burning. “But Father,” she said. “I’m not ready to get married! Especially to James!”

  Henry stood and crushed his cigar out in the ashtray, his thick fingers turning red as he pressed down harder and harder. “Clara,” he said. “We’ve been over this before. Your mother and I have made it clear how we feel—”

  “But what about what I feel?” Clara said, her heart about to burst. “What about what I want?”

  “You’re too young to know what you want,” her father said.

  “No,” Clara said, looking him in the eye. “I’m not. I told you before. I want to go to college.” It was the only excuse she could think of to try to get them to call off the engagement. For now, at least. At one time she’d wanted to go to college to get away from her parents, to learn how to be a secretary, or maybe a nurse. She wanted to be able to stand on her own two feet. But now her dreams had changed. For the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be loved and cherished. There was nothing she wanted more than to share her life and make a family with Bruno. “Lillian is going to college,” she said, knowing it was a weak argument.

  “I don’t give a damn what your friends are doing!” her father said, his face turning red.

  “We’re not paying good, hard-earned money to send our daughter off under the guise of higher education so she can smoke, drink, and attend petting parties!” her mother said.

  Clara rolled her eyes, an incredulous chuckle escaping her lips. She knew her mother was thinking of the latest ditty that had been circulating: “She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t pet, she hasn’t been to college yet.” Of course her mother would think that way.

  “That’s not why girls go to college, Mother,” Clara said.

  “This is about that Bruno boy, isn’t it?” her mother said. “That immigrant you brought home for dinner a few weeks ago?”

  Clara felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I don’t know, Mother,” she said. “Is it? Is that why you want me to marry James? To keep me away from Bruno?”

  The memory of the dreadful night she brought Bruno home to meet her parents played out in Clara’s mind, the scenes flipping in her head like photos in the coin-operated machine at the penny arcade. Bruno at the door, smiling, his thick, dark hair slicked back from his chiseled face, his hands in the pockets of his borrowed dinner jacket. Clara thanked him for coming and kissed him once on the cheek, inhaling the clean scent of his soft skin, a pleasant mixture of Barbasol shaving cream and Lifebuoy soap. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, having been warned that Ruth despised late arrivals.

  Clara took Bruno’s hands from his pockets and straightened his tie, her stomach fluttering. Trying to act calm so he wouldn’t be nervous, she told him to take a deep breath, reminded him to shake her father’s hand, then led him through the foyer and down the hallway to the parlor. He gaped at the lily-globed chandeliers and framed paintings, no doubt surprised that she lived in such an extravagant home. She had told Bruno that her father was in banking, worried the truth would scare him away. Henry Cartwright was half owner of Swift Bank, the largest bank in Manhattan, with branches in all New York boroughs and several upstate communities. And her mother, Ruth, was the lone heiress of the Bridge Bros. Clothing Emporium.

  Clara opened the ivory doors leading into the parlor and motioned Bruno inside. Her parents were taking tea before dinner, her mother sitting next to the fireplace, her father resting one arm on the marble mantel. Henry looked up when Bruno and Clara entered the room, then grunted and checked his pocket watch. At first, Ruth stood, a bright smile on her face. But when she saw Bruno’s ill-fitting jacket and scuffed shoes, she sat back down.

  Clara clenched her jaw and led Bruno toward her father, hoping he would be impressed by Bruno’s story about coming to America alone, to build a new life in the land of the free. After all, Henry’s father had done the same thing in 1871, bringing his new bride from England to the USA. But instead of shaking Bruno’s outstretched hand, her father checked his pocket watch again, declaring it was time for dinner. Ruth stood and held her delicate fingers in the air, as if allowing Bruno to touch her hand. Bruno shook her hand and nodded.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright,” he said.

  Ruth gave him a thin smile, then took her husband’s arm and sauntered into the dining room. Clara patted Bruno’s arm and followed, nodding toward her parents and rolling her eyes. Bruno frowned at her, doubt lining his forehead. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She mouthed, “I love you,” and kissed his cheek. He finally smiled. Without a word, they found their places at the table, her parents on each end, she and Bruno across from each other. To see Bruno, she had to look around one of the ridiculously large vases of flowers her mother insisted on displaying everywhere in the house.

  Clara always wondered if the display on the dining table was so Ruth wouldn’t have to look at Henry during dinner, no doubt irritated when he slurped his soup or chewed too fast. Henry ate with gusto and greed, shoving in more food before he was finished chewing, talking with his mouth full, taking the last serving of fish or chicken before others had barely started eating. Henry was always the first one finished, and it annoyed Ruth to no end. Clara found her father’s bad manners typical of the way he lived, taking what he wanted without consideration or awareness of those around him, plowing forward as if he had every right. Now, Clara stood, lifted the flowers off the table, carried them across the room, and placed them on the buffet. Ruth watched without a word, her mouth hanging open.

  While the maid ladled soup into their bowls, Ruth kept her eyes on the dish in front of her. Henry stared at Bruno and Clara, forehead furrowed as he sized up the situation. Clara shifted in her seat, waiting for him to start the conversation. When she caught her father’s eye, he looked down, suddenly interested in positioning his napkin in his lap. Normally, Ruth had to remind him to use it.

  Clara gripped the edge of the tablecloth and sat up straight. “Father,” she said, trying to sound chipper. “Bruno has only been working down on the docks for six months and he’s already been promoted to foreman.”

  Henry grunted, picked up his spoon, and took a mouthful of soup.

  “Thank you for inviting me into your home,” Bruno said. “It’s very kind of you to open your doors to your daughter’s friends.”

  Clara looked at her mother, waiting for a response. While Clara was growing up, Ruth had told her repeatedly that first and foremost, she judged people on their manners. Ruth always said you could tell a lot about a person’s upbringing based on their use of please and thank you. Apparently, manners only mattered when they suited Ruth’s agenda. At the end of the table, Ruth dipped her spoon in her soup, her eyes on her bowl, as if eating were the most interesting thing she’d ever done. Clara felt blood rise in her cheeks. Normally, when they had guests for dinner, Ruth talked nonstop, opining on artwork, the theater, the most modern electrical appliances, asking questions to the point of being nosy. Even after William died, she put on her best behavior for dinner guests. It was expected, after all.

  “Mother?” Clara said. “You always said it was rude to ignore company.”

  “Oh,” Ruth said. “Excuse me.” She set down her spoon, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and shifted in her chair. “I didn’t realize your guest was talking to me.” She considered Bruno, eyebrows raised. “What were you saying, young man?”

  “I wanted to thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home,” Bruno said.

  “You’re welcome,” Ruth said. Then, without another word, she picked up her spoon and started eating again, her pearl-d
rop earrings swinging beside her pale neck.

  The veins in Clara’s neck throbbed as if about to burst. So this was how it was going to be. They were going to take one look at Bruno and make a decision about him. Was it because of his clothes, his job, or his accent and bronzed skin? She clenched her hands in her lap, digging her fingernails into her palms.

  Clara had told Bruno that her father would be impressed by his quick climb up the ladder, even if it was only at the local seaport. She thought her father would be surprised that Bruno had already saved enough money to lease an apartment. He was saving toward investments too, hoping to buy into the stock market. She had said Henry would be happy to advise him, to give him tips and possibly the name of a trustworthy investor to steer him in the right direction. Now, she berated herself for being so stupid and blind. What was she thinking, bringing Bruno here?

  Her mind raced, trying to come up with a way to escape, to put an early end to this disastrous dinner. She pretended to eat her soup, her stomach churning. She wondered what Bruno was thinking. Could he see that she was distraught? Did he know that if she’d had any idea her parents would react this way, she never would have asked him to come? Or does he think it was all a setup? She could feel her chest and neck getting hotter and hotter, her cheeks starting to burn. Then, suddenly, her father spoke.

  “I’m trying to understand something,” he said, looking directly at Bruno for the first time. He paused and rested his arm on the table, one finger pointing at Bruno. “What is your last name, by the way?”

  “It’s Moretti, sir,” Bruno said. “Bruno Moretti. I was named after my late father.”

  “Hmm,” Henry said, lifting his chin. “And what did your father do in Italy?”

  “He was a shoemaker. A very good one, sir.”

  “I see,” Henry said. “So your father was a shoemaker, and you work down on the docks? Down at the South Street Seaport?”