“And you look… sporty.”
I explained my mistake, assuming she’d tell me it was no big deal.
“That’s terrible,” she said, and I got the impression that she really did think so.
“If we’d known you were coming,” said Bobby, “we could have given you a ride.”
“Not helpful, Bobby,” said Laura, and we all laughed it off as we made our way up to the front door.
Mary Lou flung open the door before any of us had a chance to knock. “You made it,” she said, then pulled Laura and me in for something bordering on a hug. Once she released us, she assessed our outfits, and while she didn’t say anything about my shoes, I could feel her take them in.
She introduced herself to Paul and Bobby; then Jim Jenkins, who had been mixing himself a drink at a makeshift bar in the foyer, stepped forward and introduced himself to Laura and me. He was trim and tan, with salt-and-pepper sideburns and a firm handshake—almost exactly whom I’d pictured for Mary Lou.
Once Paul handed over the wine, we were ushered into the living room, where several other couples were already milling about. The names washed over me, but I soon realized that everyone worked in the Repair Department and reported up through Joe Stearns, who was in attendance, alongside his wife, Roberta. Stearns reported directly to the XO, Tony Visconti, whom I had not met; he apparently had not been able to make it.
Laura leaned in and whispered, “Bobby says they rotate these dinners.”
“Rotate?”
“Like they’ll have all the Repair officers, then the next time it’ll be Supply. Or Engineering. Or what have you. Mary Lou doesn’t want anyone to feel left out.”
I eyed Mary Lou, who was making her way around the room with a tray of rumaki. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I wonder if the Greers are coming,” said Laura, and just then there was another knock at the door, and in walked Janine Greer with Daniel and Angela Bornemann.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
Laura rested a hand on my arm. “She’ll be fine. She said her piece. You said yours. It’s over.”
Janine made her apologies for the commodore’s absence, and Angela handed Mary Lou a bottle of mirto, and we did another round of introductions. By the time Angela got around to greeting Laura and me, I had a million-watt smile ready to go. “So good to see you again,” I said.
“Likewise,” said Angela and, because she apparently preferred to have the upper hand at all times, she told me that she’d met Paul at a luncheon on the tender. “He says you’re taking Italian lessons,” she said, and I felt my heart rate skyrocket. What could I say? That I disliked Angela so intensely I had foregone her (free) language lessons and was instead paying great sums of money to a woman who might be a communist and was most definitely put out by the U.S. Navy, everyone on theGilmore, and maybe even me personally?
“I have the attention span of a gnat,” I said finally. “So I thought I might do better with private lessons.” This was, of course, not true, and as if to call me on it, Angela made a disbelieving gurgle in the back of her throat.
51.
WHILE LAURA AND A FEWof the other wives buzzed around the dining room, complimenting the centerpiece and trying to help Mary Lou decide if she’d cut enough bread for the fondue, the men moved out onto the veranda, which had a commanding view of downtown La Maddalena, Santo Stefano, and beyond that, the coast of northern Sardinia. “This is what sold us on the house,” I overheard Jenkins say.
For a while, I wandered around the living room, admiring the Jenkinses’ books and art and knickknacks. There were some nice antiques, a couple of attractive tapestries, and a striking Folon print of a cruise ship. I appreciated the way everything in the room felt like it had been collected over time. It gave the impression that the Jenkinses were well traveled, which was probably the case.
From the veranda, I heard Angela say, “It’s all just marketing,” which made me realize, with a bit of a start, that she had not felt the obligation to remain inside with the women, talking about the ideal dimensions of cubed ham.
I doubled back to the set of doors that led to the veranda and hovered on the threshold, where I could better hear the conversation. Angela sat at the foot of a lounger in the middle of a dozen men. “You can’t sell revolution in a Western nation as prosperous as this one, so you’ve got to go more bourgeois. Put on your best suit and try to act like a legitimate political party.”
“Well, it seems to be working,” said Jenkins, and no one argued with him.
“Amendola doesn’t believe the PCI can win the next general election,” said Joe. “And it’s his party.”
Jenkins didn’t disagree, just called to Mary Lou and asked if she’d make him another drink. To everyone else, he said, “Anyone need anything?”
They demurred.
Jenkins lit a cigarette. “Amendola doesn’t know what he believes.”
“So you think it could happen?” asked Paul.
“I think the PCI is not to be underestimated.”
