The Hellers were the first to buy in Montebello—a six-thousand-square-foot French Normandy house at Nine Palms, which in addition to the golf course offered one-acre parcels in a gated community with like-minded souls. Robert was a dumpling of a man, half a head shorter than Gretchen, bald, and apple-shaped. The two so plainly adored each other that Nora was often envious. Tonight she was especially grateful for their company because it kept the flow of conversation light and inconsequential. Nora managed to remain gracious while keeping her distance from her husband. At moments, she saw his gaze settle on her quizzically, as though he sensed the difference in her without being able to put his finger on it. She knew he wouldn’t ask for fear she’d tell him something he didn’t want to know.
They moved from drinks in the parlor to the dining room where they ordered their second round of drinks, menus open in front of them. There was a set selection of entrées at surprisingly reasonable prices. Where else could you order Salisbury steak or beef Stroganoff for $7.95, with a salad and two sides? These were foods from the 1950s, nothing trendy, spicy, or ethnic. Nora was debating between the pan-seared petrale sole and the roast chicken and mashed potatoes when Gretchen leaned toward Robert and placed a hand on his sleeve. “Oh my god. You won’t believe who just walked in.”
Nora was sitting with her back to the entrance so she had no idea who Gretchen was referring to. Robert glanced discreetly to the side and said, “Shit.”
Two men passed the table in the wake of the maître d’ who was leading the way. The first Nora knew by sight though she didn’t remember his name. The second was Lorenzo Dante. She dropped her gaze, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks. Despite his claim he might be there, he was the last person in the world she had actually expected to see at Nine Palms. She’d put the meeting with him out of her mind, refusing to think about the awkward transaction with the ring. She’d returned the ring to her jewelry box, wishing she hadn’t been so adamant in her refusal of the seventy-five thousand dollars. She should have taken it.
Nora leaned forward. “Who is he?”
Under her breath, Gretchen said, “Lorenzo Dante’s son. They call him Dante.” Then she mouthed, “He’s Mafia.”
Robert picked up on the comment and responded with impatience. “Good god, Gretchen. He’s not Mafia. Where did you get that idea?”
“The equivalent,” she said. “You told me so yourself.”
“I did no such thing. I said I did business with him once upon a time. I said he was a tough customer.”
“You said worse than that and you know it,” she replied.
The maître d’ seated the two men at a corner table, and Nora found Dante facing her, visible just over Channing’s shoulder. The juxtaposition was an odd one, Channing’s slim elegance in contrast to Dante’s more substantial build. Channing’s hair was white, clipped close on the sides with a short rough on top. His brows were almost invisible and his face was narrow. Dante was silver-haired and his complexion was a warmer tone. Dark brows, gray mustache, deeply dimpled cheeks. With his features lined up against Channing’s, she could see how pinched her husband looked. Maybe the strain of his secret life was taking its toll. Nora had always thought Channing was good-looking, but she wondered about that now. His face was drained of color and he looked like he’d lost weight. The waiter appeared at the table and they ordered their meal and a bottle of Kistler Chardonnay.
She felt herself detach, a state that was becoming all too frequent with her of late. Whatever Robert’s business with Dante, he clearly didn’t want to talk about it now. Gretchen would have enlightened her, given half a chance. In their social set, gossip was a sport. There was no “fact of the matter,” only rumor and innuendo. Points were awarded for anything juicy, regardless of the truth content. This was what she knew of Dante, that he’d come to her defense. This was what she also knew, that he’d offered her a way out.
She tuned in to Robert’s conversation with Channing and heard him propose lunch and a round of golf.
“You have a tee time?”
“Don’t need one on Sundays. The course won’t be crowded. We can walk on anytime we like.”
Channing caught Nora’s eye. “Is that okay with you?”
“Fine.”
The talk shifted to Robert’s last round of golf. He’d played Pebble Beach the weekend before, and the two men discussed the course. Neither she nor Gretchen played golf, which meant the two men could hold forth while nothing was expected of them. The salads arrived and the topic of conversation shifted again, this time to the cruise to the Far East the Hellers were taking at the end of June. They compared notes about cruise lines, and Nora was able to keep up her end of the conversation without effort. Once she disconnected, everything was so much easier.