The Lost Girl of Astor Street(74)

My mind drifts to Elsie Ann Sail, who was everything a woman of her day was supposed to be. And who should have turned forty-six today, if the world was a place that operated as it should.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you—the song flows from my heart, floods my eyes—happy birthday, dear mother, happy birthday to you.

“Nice that you have something to remember her by while you’re away,” I say. Alana turns to me, noting, I’m sure, the watery quality of my voice. “Today is my mother’s birthday. Or would’ve been, of course.”

Alana looks to the street, where Walter pulls the Chrysler alongside the curb. “I like you, Piper.” She sighs, as if this is somehow a sad thing. “I wish all of this were better for you.”

Jane barges out the front door and saunters past me without a glance. Her mother and sisters trail behind her, their shoes click-clacking down the front steps to the idling car.

“But girls like us keep moving forward.” Alana stomps out her cigarette, and when she looks at me I notice she’s not as beautiful as I initially thought. Rather, the way she appears and carries herself gives the illusion of beauty. Her voice is quiet, thoughtful, when she adds, “I hope you make it out of this okay.”

“Piper, let’s go!” Mrs. Miller—who already informed me I’m not to call her Grandma—calls from within the car. “We’ll be late!”

I take a deep breath. I love you, Mother. And I force my feet to move down the steps and through the gate.




“Is there anything in this world more boring than a wedding?” I mutter under my breath to Tim.

“No. Especially when you’re hungry,” he says through his smile.

The flashbulb pops—finally!—and I let the smile fall off my face.

Gretchen turns to my brother, her eyes wide and the corners of her mouth downturned.

“Not our wedding, of course, dear.” Tim squeezes her shoulder. “You had ours planned perfectly.”

Gretchen seems mollified. She adjusts Howie on her hip. “Except for the carrot cake.”

Her sigh is heavy, and she gives me a despairing head shake, as if we’re commiserating together. As if I have the foggiest idea of what went wrong with the carrot cake at their wedding three years ago.

“Okay, all the family is dismissed,” the photographer says in his pinched voice. “Only the happy couple needs to stay.”

Thank goodness.

My shoes wobble beneath me as I attempt to speed walk up the front steps of the Congress Hotel. There are chairs in the ballroom, and I need a chair even more than I need something to eat. Would anyone notice if I went barefoot the rest of the night? Somehow, I think yes.

The golden ballroom is warm with chatter and laughter. The honey-colored tablecloths are still fresh, the fussy white flowers perky in the clear vases, and the food—slabs of beef, salads in lettuce cups, and an abundance of other colorful dishes—are still mounded on the buffet line.

And there’s the head table, full of glorious empty chairs. I sink into one with a sigh and give thanks for whoever dreamed up tablecloths long enough to conceal that I’m removing my shoes.

More family—family that did not race as I did—filters into the room, causing a stir of excitement in the crowd, most likely because it indicates dinner will soon be served.

Gretchen takes the seat beside me, then giggles. “Oh, that’s so cute! You want your auntie Piper, don’t you?”

Howie’s arms are extended, his hands trying to grasp me. Or, more likely, the sparkling beads on my dress.

“I’m sure it’s just a fluke.”

“No, he definitely wants you.” With that, Gretchen plunks Howie onto my lap.

He looks up at me with large, dark eyes and an unsmiling mouth. It’s like he knows I have no clue what I’m doing.

“You just love your auntie, don’t you?” Gretchen coos.

He turns to his mother, and then back to me for more staring.

I give his curly head a pat, only to find my fingers mesmerized by his cloud-soft hair.

See? Babies aren’t so bad, Lydia says to me as Howie grabs fistfuls of skirt in his chubby hands.

My stomach growls four times before Father and Jane are announced and enter the ballroom. (Heaven forbid Jane simply enter a room on her special day.) But at least they’re here, and we can eat.

“How many people are you feeding off that plate, sis?” Tim asks as we settle into our seats after our turn through the buffet line.

I stick my tongue out at him, and beneath the shelter of the tablecloth, I again slip off my pinchy shoes. I shovel food into my mouth between chats with those who stop by to say a “brief hello” and fawn over Howie.

I’ve just swallowed a large bite of dinner roll when I sense someone standing beside me, and a rumbly male voice says, “You must be the famous Piper Sail.”

I look up and blink into the dark eyes of a tall, imposing Italian man. He’s not overweight, just solid. Broad shoulders, a thick chest, and powerful legs. With a scowl, he’d be intimidating, but his smile is full and his eyes indicate a man of good humor.

I dab my mouth with a cream-colored napkin. “I don’t know that I’m exactly famous, but I haven’t yet met another Piper Sail.”

“You’re famous at my house, anyway.” The man sticks out his hand, which is massive, like a baseball mitt. “Giovanni Cassano. Mariano’s father. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Sail.”