Anthony scoffed. “That’s not what’s bothering you. You’ll always get business from the neighborhood and you know it. You’re our girl.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
“The problem, if I may say, is that you want them to love you. You want them to approve.”
It struck a chord. “Okay, I do. Guilty.”
Anthony eyed her, his brown eyes soft. “You need to stop being guilty, and you need to understand that it’s your opinion that matters and not theirs. Not anybody else’s. Not even mine.”
Mary listened, and Anthony’s tone was tender enough that she didn’t hit him.
“Are you proud of what you did, babe?”
Babe? Mary couldn’t let herself be distracted by any instant replays. “Yes.”
“You think you’re in the right?”
“Yes.”
“Then let it go, let it all go. Some people will agree, some will disagree, and the ones who stay with you are the ones who count.”
Mary considered it, and Anthony leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“For what it’s worth, I agree with you and I’m staying. If you’ll let me. Will you?”
Mary looked at him, touched. He was staying. And she was happy about it, she could feel it inside. She didn’t hesitate before she kissed him back. Slower.
And after another kiss, Anthony slid the coffee from her hand and set it on the night table.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
M ary and Anthony dropped by her parents’ for a quiet dinner, but the first clue that something was different was the music playing when they opened the front door. They got inside and stood mystified by the sight: octogenarians packed the living room, their gray heads and bald pates bobbing as they fox-trotted or stood in groups, talking, laughing, and drinking beer. Mary was astounded. It was getting crazier and crazier at her parents, and she suspected AARP was behind it.
“What’s going on here?” Mary asked, but no one even noticed they were inside. The dining room was full, too, even though it was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, or another occasion when something really good had happened to Jesus Christ.
“Ma?” Anthony asked, and from the middle of the crowd, Elvira Rotunno turned around, brightening behind her glasses. She had on a pretty blue dress, worn without an apron, and held a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer.
“Ant! What’re you doin’ here?”
“Maria!” Mary’s mother emerged with open arms. “Maria, I was so worry.”
“Honey!” Mary’s father materialized at her mother’s side, dressed in his Sunday best. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Both parents threw their arms around her, and when they broke up their clinch, everyone had turned to watch, their smiles a sea of dentures. Mary spotted the Elmo-red comb-over of Tony-From-Down-The-Block, the Mr. Potatohead glasses of Tony Two Feet Pensiera, and the tiny, tanned head of Pigeon Tony. But she was surprised to see Bernice Foglia, hoisting a bottle of beer. In the background, Frank Sinatra launched into “Just in Time.”
“How do you like our mixer?” Her father beamed, gesturing at the crowd with his heavy hand. “It’s the Sinatra Society and the Dean Martin Club. We did it together.”
“You’re kidding.” Mary laughed, delighted. “How did that happen?”
“I knew you were busy with Trish Gambone and all, so I figured I’d pick up the phone and call Mrs. Foglia myself.” Her father grinned, and behind him, Mrs. Foglia came forward with Tony-From-Down-The-Block. You didn’t have to be an amateur sleuth to see the new warmth between them.
“It’s like this,” Mrs. Foglia said, wagging a finger. “Tony said he was sorry to me and Frank, and that’s good enough for me.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded. “Then she apologized for what she said about Dean. Now everything is copasetic.”
Mrs. Foglia looked over sharply. “You apologized first. Then I apologized.”
Mary interrupted before the truce collapsed. “I think that’s terrific. No more litigation, no more fighting. Peace is better than war, and love came just in time.”
“I did good, huh, Mare?” her father asked, grinning, and in response she gave him another big hug.
“I love you, Pop.” Mary hugged him one more time, then her mother, and just when she thought the hugfest was over, Anthony threw his arms around her and gave her a big kiss.
“You’re amazing,” he said, looking down at her, his dark eyes warm, and suddenly from the crowd, came a gasp. Elvira Rotunno stood aghast, her forehead creased with bewilderment and her eyes focused on her son.
“Ant’n’y, honey? What are you doing, kissing Mary like that?”
For a minute, Mary didn’t understand, then she remembered.
Anthony smiled. “Ma, I have something to tell you.”
The room fell silent except for Frank Sinatra, and everybody held his breath.
“Ma, I’m not gay. I never was gay and I’m never going to be gay.”
“Ant, it’s okay. I know you’re gay and I love you anyway.” Elvira gestured at the crowd. “We all know. I told everybody, it’s like Rock Hudson. We’re all fine with it, aren’t we?”
The room murmured in approval, though Mary spotted two members of the Dean Martin Fan Club exchanging looks in the back of the crowd. Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime, but only if the somebodies were a boy and a girl.
“Mom, no.” Anthony laughed. “I’m really not gay. I just like books and wine and opera.”
“That’s not true, son. You don’t have to lie. I like it that you’re gay. It makes me feel special.”
“Listen, I’m straight. I can’t help it. I was born this way.”
“It’s possible, Elvira.” Mary’s father looked over with a half smile, but her lined mouth was set with skepticism.
“No, it’s not. What about Celine Dion? That’s proof!”
Mary saw a chance to broker a settlement. “Elvira, he was gay, but I converted him, and if I keep at it, he’ll stay on the straight and narrow.”
“Right, Ma. All it took was the love of a good woman.” Anthony threw his arm around Mary and gave her a squeeze. “This woman.”
Mary’s parents beamed, and Elvira looked from Anthony to Mary and back again, then broke into a smile.
“That, I can understand,” she said, finally.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A pale yellow sun climbed a cloudless sky, and Rittenhouse Square was just beginning to flower, the coldest of March gone for good. The hedges lining the park popped bright green leaves, and the grass, recently seeded, sprouted behind cordons of cotton string. People strode through the park, bearing briefcases and gym bags, full of purpose and caffeine, on their way to work. Mary sat next to Judy on a wooden bench, dressed in a khaki suit, white shirt, brown pumps, and her starter trenchcoat. She was betting it would help get her job back, if she dressed like a mini Bennie Rosato.
“She’ll take you back, I know it,” Judy was saying. “All you have to do is go into her office, sit in a chair, and tell her that you’re sorry.”
“What am I sorry for, again?” Mary kept forgetting.
“You’re sorry for walking out that day.”
“I’m not sorry for that. I’m sorry I lost my job. Does that count?”
“No. You need to say you’re sorry if you want your job back.” Judy looked concerned, which was a neat trick in a jeans jacket and a cherry red minidress, worn with black-and-white-striped leggings and yellow Dr. Martens boots.
“She might not take me back. At the Roundhouse, she barely spoke to me.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’ll come around. She was really upset last week, after she’d come back from court. She won her trial and she still wasn’t happy.” Judy flared her eyes. “Unprecedented.”
“Really.”
“Weird.” Judy nodded.
“She left me no choice but to go,” Mary said, thinking back. “The truth is, I wouldn’t do it any differently.”
“You’re not going to say that.” Judy brushed a spray of bangs out of her eyes. “It sucks working there without you. Anne feels the same way. We want you back.”