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“What makes you think I’m not a local?”
Trudy had laughed. “The truth? I know just about everyone in this burg. Lived here all my life. And I’d remember if I’d seen you around. You look like you should be teaching at the high school.”
“You know the Sgros?”
The name was an odd one and Trudy had never heard it. She shook her head.
“That’s my mom and dad. They moved here five years ago because they wanted to get out of their neighborhood in Youngstown, which was getting really bad. Lots of crime. They live down in Little England?” He cocked his head.
“Oh! Yeah, that’s not far from me.” Trudy knew the neighborhood well because it was even poorer than her own. It sat just below the river a bit and habitually got flooded. The homes were all run-down wooden affairs, little more than shacks, often covered with tar paper masquerading as brick.
He nodded and glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, Ma’s sick. Breast cancer. Dad just brought her home from the nursing home in Wheeling.” He stared down at the ground for a moment. “There wasn’t any more they could do. She isn’t expected to last long.”
Trudy put her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad I could get time off work to be with her.”
Trudy nodded and was about to get in her car. The ice cream in one of the bags would not take kindly to the heat and she couldn’t afford to waste food, even food that added weight to her frame.
“I didn’t even get your name,” he said.
She turned to peer at him.
He smiled. “I’m Chris Sgro.” He held out a hand and she shook it.
“Trudy. Trudy Blake.”
Despite the Neapolitan she knew was melting into the bag, they continued to talk a bit. She told him about her work at the local pottery, about her boy, their dog, and what she did for fun (not much in this hellhole). He’d told her he lived in Akron, where he was an assistant professor at the University of Akron, teaching Russian literature. At the mention of that, Trudy was certain she was out of his league.
But he’d asked her out, anyway.
II
And here they were, at St. Clair’s finest restaurant—Fiorello’s, a little Italian joint on Mulberry Street—on their first date. Clichés filled the place—red checkered tablecloths, oil paintings of the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps, the likes of Frank Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Rosemary Clooney playing on the sound system, and flickering, waxy pillar candles stuffed into the mouths of Chianti bottles. All these things made Trudy feel like she was in a movie likeThe Godfather.
Trudy had forgotten what being on a date felt like—what it felt like was time travel, back to when Trudy was in her early twenties and still full of hope about what a date could bring. Maybe marriage? Passionate kisses that would lead to something more? A surrogate dad for Sammy? Someone on a white horse that might sweep her and her boy up and take themselves far from this poverty-stricken area to start a new life—white picket fence, two cars in the garage, vacations—all that jazz.
That hope had been wiped out by too many drinkers, addicts, and men who thought a “yes” to an evening out automatically meant a “yes” to a romp in the sheets, even when she said no. Or men who were just plain boring—all they knew how to talk about was sports, or fishing, or hunting. Or even worse, their dead-end jobs. Or even worse than that, former wives and lovers that they either hated or couldn’t seem to get over.
They never could be bothered to take an interest in what she had to say.
The sad reality she’d come to know could be summed up in three words—most men were pigs. She’d yet to find a good one, the kind she watched with envy in those damned misleading holiday Hallmark movies.
But Chris, across from her, seemed like none of the men she’d experienced before. He was thoughtful and a real gentleman. He’d insisted on picking her up, opening the car door for her, and pulling her chair out at the restaurant. He’d asked if she’d mind him ordering for the both of them, and she was both relieved and delighted. Not one man in her past had ever suggested such a thing.
And what he’d ordered hadn’t been disappointing, not at all. She would have ordered the same if she thought she could afford it. They’d started with calamari rings with marinara sauce, then a cup of Fiorello’s incredible Italian wedding soup, followed by linguine with clam sauce. He’d ordered a bottle of white wine, the name of which she’d never heard nor could she remember, but it was delicious, just a little sweet and perfect for her palate and the food they were enjoying.
Now, as they’d finished up a shared dessert of tiramisu and coffee, Trudy was feeling very good about this date. She was also full to the brim and would have to starve herself for the next few days to not add ten pounds to her hips.
“I don’t know if I can move.” Trudy laughed and put a hand on her belly. “That was wonderful, but I am filled to the gills.”
He chuckled and topped off her wine. “I’m glad you enjoyed. And I’m happy you have an appetite. I’ve gone out with too many gals who insist on ‘just a salad.’ I like thatyoulike to eat.”
“Well, considering the fact that it keeps me alive and kicking, I guess I do.” She grinned. “But seriously, thank you for this. It was incredible. I don’t get to enjoy stuff like this very often. The days at the pottery are so long and take so much out of me that when I get home, all I wanna do is sleep. Usually, I’m sorry to say, I end up feeling myself and Sammy tuna fish sandwiches or worse, cereal for dinner.” She laughed. Warmth rose to her cheeks. “I suppose that makes me sound like a bad mother.”
“Not at all. It makes you sound like a mother who works hard to take care of her son.” He took a sip of wine.
“Okay,” she said. “You got me. I’ve been resisting, but I have to be a proud mama for a minute and show you some pics of Sammy.”
