Page 6 of Letters From Victor

BARBARA

January 1951

Frank silently fiddled with the brim of his hat on his lap as I parked our car in front of his office building.

“Barb, are you sure about starting this new job? If it’s about the money?—”

I cut him off. “Yes. And it’s not just about the money, Frank.”

He heaved a sigh as he turned to face me, his eyes filled with concern and resignation. “I know you’ve been restless, Barb. I just… I worry about you, about us, about Frank Junior. This job, it’s going to change things.”

“It’s only three days a week. And Edith is happy to keep Frankie.”

Frank sighed again. “Your sister really does love the boy.”

I kept my eyes forward, focusing on the morning sun glinting off the hood of our Plymouth, avoiding the disappointment and worry etched across his features.

“And your mother doesn’t approve of you working for some rich businessman downtown when you’ve got Frank Junior and me to look after at home.” Frank’s voice was strained.

I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath through pursed lips before I turned in the driver’s seat to look at him. “Mother has something to say about everything. And besides, this job was your idea in the first place. You set this up with your pal, Victor. Remember?”

Frank shrank back against the window. “I know, I know. And I thought it was a good idea. At the time.”

I softened my tone. “Please, Frank. Just let me try. I need this.”

Frank met my gaze and held it for a long moment before he nodded. A small, sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “All right.” He reached over and squeezed my gloved hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Frank.” I leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave. “I’ll see you tonight.”

With a final nod, Frank opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He straightened his tie and donned his hat before striding into the towering office building, quickly becoming lost in the morning crowd of suited businessmen.

I pulled away from the curb and merged into the busy Los Angeles morning traffic. The January sun hung low in the sky, its weak rays doing little to combat the winter chill that seeped through the thin material of my gloves as I gripped the steering wheel. I flexed my fingers and sat a little taller. This was the start of something, whether I was ready or not.

I followed behind the receptionist, Mrs. Miller, a stout brunette with gray-streaked hair pulled up in a tight bun. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished marble floor as she led me down a long, wood-paneled hallway. Framed photographs of racing cars spanning back a few decades adorned the walls.

We stopped in front of a large oak door that bore a gleaming brass nameplate reading “Victor Cardello” in bold typeface. To the right of the door sat a cluttered but well-appointed desk, complete with a sleek black typewriter and a vase of fresh flowers.

“This will be your workstation, Mrs. Evans.”

I nodded, taking in my new domain. Mrs. Miller’s lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the cluttered surface of the desk.

“I apologize for the state of things, Mrs. Evans. Mr. Cardello’s previous secretary left rather abruptly, and we haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Miller. I’m happy to take care of it.” I offered her a reassuring smile, already mentally sorting through the disarray.

I removed my gloves and settled into the plush leather chair as Mrs. Miller rattled off a list of instructions—filing systems, phone etiquette, coffee preferences. I nodded along, trying to absorb every detail while my eyes kept darting to the imposing oak door.

After what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Miller finally departed with a curt nod, leaving me alone in the quiet anteroom. I began to sift through the jumble of papers, organizing them into neat stacks.

I just about had everything sorted and filed when a shadow suddenly blocked my light. I looked up to see Victor Cardello perched on the edge of my desk. Startled, I jumped.

“Mr. Cardello,” I stammered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. “Please, call me Victor.” His voice was smooth and rich, like aged whiskey poured slow and neat. “I see you’ve already worked your magic on this disaster of a desk.”

I felt a flush creep up my neck as I straightened the last stack of papers. “Just trying to make myself useful, Mr. Card—Victor.” His name felt foreign yet thrilling on my tongue.

Victor picked up a crystal paperweight, turning it over in his large, well-manicured hands. “I knew you’d be the perfect addition to my team the moment I met you.” He set the paperweight down with a soft clink. “You have a keen eye for detail, Mrs. Evans.”

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