Buckingham Palace ?”
“Close,” responded Vicky with a knowing laugh. “ La Villa d’Este .”
“I’ve seen their ads,” Burton said. “It’s new and sounds excellent. Somehow I haven’t around to trying it yet. The Sanctuary’s so convenient; I guess I’ve just gotten into a rut.” He turned quickly to Doris . “No offense, of course.”
Doris laughed. “None at all. I’ve never tried it because it’s so expensive.”
“Good!” Vicky stated. “Then it’s a first for all of us. Let’s get going.”
As Burton opened the door for the party, Vicky glanced back toward the parlor and saw Sarah Carstairs watching them, without expression.
They drove along the darkening roads in Roger’s station wagon, until a white sign with blue lettering appeared on their right, directing them along a curving drive to the restaurant’s entrance.
The grounds were alight with hidden spotlights, casting circles of bright green on the darkened lawn. Azaleas, blooming in fuchsia and white, huddled beside the steps leading up to the doorway, which was quickly opened by a tuxedoed black man wearing white gloves.
“Have you reservations?” he asked with a slightly condescending tone, but with overt politeness as he blocked the door against riff-raff.
“Yes,” Roger said. “It’s in the name of…”
“ La Contessa dei Strioni ,” Vicki proffered. She pretended to be unaware of her companions’ startled eyes and opened mouths.
“Oh, yes , Contessa !” the maître d’ called anxiously from behind the doorman and burst past him from the interior of the restaurant, nearly knocking him off his pins. As he bowed from the waist, Vicky listened to hear if his heels would click. They did. “We’ve been expecting you,” the prim, self-important man said with the utmost obsequiousness. “Please, enter.” He bowed his way across a deep-pile, oriental carpet as he escorted them to the center of the ornate dining room. “Will you kindly wait just a moment while I will seek out our manager, who wishes to greet you personally?”
Vicky smiled sweetly. “But of course.”
When the maître d’ returned, he was followed by a short, rotund man whose black bow tie seemed to be pressing all his flesh up to his face, and his face up through his hair, parting it widely in the center. “ Contessa ,” the manager gushed, “this is such a great honor.”
I intended it to be, Vicky said to herself. She raised her hand to be kissed—making sure he saw the silver-crested ring on her finger, which she’d won at a carnival as a child—and watched him glance awkwardly about him, before bowing to buss her limp fingers.
“I am Brian Riggio , the manager,” he said, straightening up as tall as he was able. “I have reserved our finest table for you. If you will be so kind as to follow me, please?”
The restaurant had obviously once been a private home of an extremely wealthy family with superb taste, a mansion, actually. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women dating back, judging by the period clothing, more than a hundred years. Each table held a small vase of freshly snipped flowers; a candle nested in a chimney of cut crystal.
“I would like to speak with you, Signore Riggio ,” Vicky said when they were all seated. Her voice had deepened, and there was just a shading of an Italian accent. Their table was directly in front of a sculpted stone fireplace, close enough to enjoy watching the flames, but far enough away to not feel the heat. “ Parlare l’italiano ? ” Vicky inquired.
Sr. Riggio shrank with embarrassment. “Only a few words,” he mumbled quickly with a humble bow, “but I used to, when I was… un bambino .” He sounded as if he hoped his confession would expiate the sin of ignorance.
Good, Vicky thought. Mine’s as rusty as an old tin can. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “You should never forget your roots, young man. But…we will speak in the English,
“Close,” responded Vicky with a knowing laugh. “ La Villa d’Este .”
“I’ve seen their ads,” Burton said. “It’s new and sounds excellent. Somehow I haven’t around to trying it yet. The Sanctuary’s so convenient; I guess I’ve just gotten into a rut.” He turned quickly to Doris . “No offense, of course.”
Doris laughed. “None at all. I’ve never tried it because it’s so expensive.”
“Good!” Vicky stated. “Then it’s a first for all of us. Let’s get going.”
As Burton opened the door for the party, Vicky glanced back toward the parlor and saw Sarah Carstairs watching them, without expression.
They drove along the darkening roads in Roger’s station wagon, until a white sign with blue lettering appeared on their right, directing them along a curving drive to the restaurant’s entrance.
The grounds were alight with hidden spotlights, casting circles of bright green on the darkened lawn. Azaleas, blooming in fuchsia and white, huddled beside the steps leading up to the doorway, which was quickly opened by a tuxedoed black man wearing white gloves.
“Have you reservations?” he asked with a slightly condescending tone, but with overt politeness as he blocked the door against riff-raff.
“Yes,” Roger said. “It’s in the name of…”
“ La Contessa dei Strioni ,” Vicki proffered. She pretended to be unaware of her companions’ startled eyes and opened mouths.
“Oh, yes , Contessa !” the maître d’ called anxiously from behind the doorman and burst past him from the interior of the restaurant, nearly knocking him off his pins. As he bowed from the waist, Vicky listened to hear if his heels would click. They did. “We’ve been expecting you,” the prim, self-important man said with the utmost obsequiousness. “Please, enter.” He bowed his way across a deep-pile, oriental carpet as he escorted them to the center of the ornate dining room. “Will you kindly wait just a moment while I will seek out our manager, who wishes to greet you personally?”
Vicky smiled sweetly. “But of course.”
When the maître d’ returned, he was followed by a short, rotund man whose black bow tie seemed to be pressing all his flesh up to his face, and his face up through his hair, parting it widely in the center. “ Contessa ,” the manager gushed, “this is such a great honor.”
I intended it to be, Vicky said to herself. She raised her hand to be kissed—making sure he saw the silver-crested ring on her finger, which she’d won at a carnival as a child—and watched him glance awkwardly about him, before bowing to buss her limp fingers.
“I am Brian Riggio , the manager,” he said, straightening up as tall as he was able. “I have reserved our finest table for you. If you will be so kind as to follow me, please?”
The restaurant had obviously once been a private home of an extremely wealthy family with superb taste, a mansion, actually. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women dating back, judging by the period clothing, more than a hundred years. Each table held a small vase of freshly snipped flowers; a candle nested in a chimney of cut crystal.
“I would like to speak with you, Signore Riggio ,” Vicky said when they were all seated. Her voice had deepened, and there was just a shading of an Italian accent. Their table was directly in front of a sculpted stone fireplace, close enough to enjoy watching the flames, but far enough away to not feel the heat. “ Parlare l’italiano ? ” Vicky inquired.
Sr. Riggio shrank with embarrassment. “Only a few words,” he mumbled quickly with a humble bow, “but I used to, when I was… un bambino .” He sounded as if he hoped his confession would expiate the sin of ignorance.
Good, Vicky thought. Mine’s as rusty as an old tin can. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “You should never forget your roots, young man. But…we will speak in the English,
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