Page 13 of Letters From Victor

“Babs…” she said finally, her voice gentle but firm. “I know you better than that. What’s going on? Is it Frank?”

I closed my eyes, my throat tightening. Part of me wanted to spill everything, to let the words come tumbling out in a cathartic rush. But another part of me—the mayor’s daughter, the well-brought-up girl trained to keep up appearances, smile, nod, and pretend everything was just swell—held back.

“Frank and I just had a little disagreement, that’s all,” I said, trying to inject a lightness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “You know how he gets sometimes.”

Edith was quiet for a moment, aside from her soft, even breathing on the other end of the line. “Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Is he in the room with you?”

“Relax, there’s no need. He’s gone out. Probably to the bar.”

“Is this about your new job?” she asked finally.

I felt a flutter of surprise. “How did you…?”

“Oh, Babs.” She sighed. “I could see the excitement on your face when you dropped off Frankie this morning. And this afternoon, you were lit up like a Christmas tree. And then you got that look—the one you get when you’re bracing for a fight. So I figured Frank doesn’t approve.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the phone. Edith knew me too well and could read me like an open book, even through the crackle of the phone line. “You’re right. Frank doesn’t like the idea of me working,” I admitted. “Especially not for someone like Victor Cardello.”

“Someone like Victor Cardello?” she repeated, a hint of curiosity in her tone. “What do you mean by that?”

I hesitated, unsure how to put into words the confusing mix of emotions that Victor stirred in me. “Nothing particularly. I just think Frank is…intimidated.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her head. “Intimidated?” Edith asked, her voicetaking on a playful lilt. “Well, well. This man must be quite the charmer to get Frank all riled up.”

I felt a blush creep up my neck, grateful that Edith couldn’t see me through the phone. “It’s not like that,” I insisted, but the lack of conviction in my voice was painfully clear. “Mr. Cardello is just…different. He’s sophisticated and worldly, and he talks about things like art and literature and travel and dreams and passions. Things that Frank doesn’t understand or care about.”

“But you do,” Edith said softly. It wasn’t a question.

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool wallpaper. “I…I don’t know, Edie. I thought I had put all those silly dreams behind me when I married Frank. But now?—”

“Babs,” she cut me off, her voice gentle but firm. “I know you love Frank. And I know you love being a mother to Frankie. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up everything else that makes you who you are. You’re a smart, talented, passionate woman. You deserve to have dreams and ambitions of your own.”

I pressed my lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

“You’re too young to remember what life was like for women before the war. I, alas, am not. We clawed our way out of the kitchen, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to be shoved back in.”

“Mother would disagree with you,” I countered.

“She’s from a different generation. And a politician’s wife through and through. Everything is about appearance for her. Always has been. Doesn’t make it right.”

I sighed, twirling the phone cord tighter around my finger until it bit into my skin. “I know. But sometimes I wonder if she’s right. If I should just be content with what I have. Frank is a good man, and Frankie is my world. Maybe I’m being selfish wanting more.”

“Nonsense,” Edith countered. “You’re not selfish for wanting to use your brain and your talents. And if Frank can’t see that, well, that’s his problem, not yours.”

Her words sent a surge of warmth through me, easing some of the tightness in my chest. “Thanks, Edie.” I sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d muddle through somehow,” she chirped, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “But luckily, you don’t have to.”

8

VICTOR

Idescended the creaky wooden stairs into the damp, musty basement. My footsteps echoed off the bare walls. A single naked bulb flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows. Joey Rizzo stood waiting, hat in hand, shifting from foot to foot. Beads of sweat dotted his brow despite the chill.

“Mr. Cardello, I’m real sorry. It’s just…some of these shop owners are barely scraping by as it is. A few are threatening to go to the cops if I keep leaning on ‘em.”

I stepped closer until I towered over Joey’s wiry frame. He shrank back but had nowhere to go, trapped between me and the rough brick wall. I reached out slowly and straightened his rumpled collar, letting my hand linger near his throat.

“I don’t recall asking you about the shop owners.” I glanced over my shoulder at my lieutenant. “Phil, did I ask Joey here about any shop owners?”

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