The Lost Girl of Astor Street(55)

If he can, he’s too much of a gentleman to speak it. “You look nice. Are you heading someplace special tonight?”

My heart pounds, and I try to make my voice casual. “No. I’m completely free tonight.”

Mariano’s gaze sweeps over the length of me, and I know he’s cataloging the evidence—my scarlet drop-waist dress that frees my legs for an evening of the Charleston, red lipstick and kohled eyes, my carefully marcelled hair. “You might be a little overdressed for an evening around the house.”

My teeth press into my lower lip before I remember my lipstick. “Well, maybe I’ll go out for a bit.”

Mariano’s smile hangs crooked as he leans against the banister. “You know, on the way over here, I got to thinking about this place that sells pizza in Little Italy, near where I grew up. I thought I might grab a slice and take a walk through the park there. There’s usually music on Friday nights in the summer. What do you think of joining me? Seems like a terrible waste to leave you at home in that dress.”

My yes catches in my throat, catches on a lump of guilt. How can I feel happy—excited even—with Lydia dead? How can I enjoy a night out with Mariano knowing that I never would have met him had I not lost Lydia?

Piper, I won’t be any less dead if you go out and enjoy yourself.

Mariano’s hand settles on the banister, beside mine so that our pinkie fingers brush together. “Or maybe it’s too soon.” The words are like a caress, and I want to lean in. Want to let myself be swept away by this man who knows that I’m trying, but struggling, and it’s not about him.

The notebook is between us, still hugged to my chest. I lower it. “Let me fetch my hat.”




The evening air is damp from the afternoon rain, and it smells of summer flowers and savory breads. Jazz music pulses from Vernon Park, as does loud laughter.

The world has continued to turn, hasn’t it? Just like when Mother died, it will indifferently carry on without Lydia.

“Buena sera, Mariano!” calls the man behind the counter of Pompei’s.

“Buena sera, Mr. Davino.” The Italian rolls out of Mariano like a ribbon. “How are you? How’s the family?”

But the man’s eyes are fixed on me. “You’ve brought a lovely girl with you, I see.”

“This is Piper.” Mariano’s hand grazes my back.

I offer an awkward wave. “Hello.”

“Hello, Piper. My daughter will be very sad to hear that you’re quite beautiful.”

I blush. What does one say to that?

But Mr. Davino doesn’t need me to answer. “What can I get for the two of you on this summer evening?”

Mariano buys us slices of bread and cheese pizza, which Mr. Davino wraps in butcher paper for us to eat in the park. “Have a good time. And, Mariano.” He seems to hesitate a moment. “I believe I saw Alessandro heading over to the park earlier.”

Am I imagining that this is a warning of some kind? The way Mariano says, “Ah, thank you,” with a stiff smile makes me think I’m not.

Outside, we cross the street to the park, which is full of families and couples enjoying the mild evening. We settle on a bench near the fountain, where the music is loud enough to fill up the gaps in conversation without us having to yell over it.

“You grew up close to here?” I ask as I unwrap my gooey slice. I’ve never eaten this before, but if it tastes half as good as it smells, I think I have a new favorite food.

Mariano nods. “Just a few blocks over. We played soccer here as kids.” He gestures to somewhere in the distance. “I still remember a magnificent goal I scored between those two trees. One of my first memories.”

The park swims with young Italian boys, and it’s not hard to picture a pint-size Mariano rolling in the grass and playing soccer with his friends.

“Alessandro is one of my brothers.” Mariano’s words slice into my imaginings. “I’m sure you were curious.”

“You don’t have to explain to me.”

His smile is strained. “Thank you, but I should before we run into him. I’m sure Mr. Davino only mentioned my brother because he’s here with his girl.” Mariano reworks the butcher paper around his pizza. “His girlfriend, Zola, she . . .”

Zola. I hear the name in my head, only spoken in my brother’s razor-edged voice. Has he even told you about Zola?

“She and I used to be together. But . . .”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say again. But I’m not trying to comfort Mariano, am I? I’m trying to protect me. Because I haven’t built a wall around my heart with Mariano like I have everyone else. And the vulnerability unnerves me.

“No, you should know.” Mariano takes a deep breath. “We knew each other as kids, me and Zola, and we were engaged. Should’ve been getting married a couple weeks ago, actually.”

“And why”—I try to swallow away the wobble that’s in my voice—“didn’t you?”

“She wasn’t interested in being a detective’s wife.”

“Oh.”

He slides his gaze to me. “Oh?”

But how do you say that you had hoped it would be more about a change of his heart rather than hers? On a first date, no less. My first first date.