When We Were Enemies: A Novel(82)

Papà gives me the look, and I fill in again. “He wants to know if you’re Italian.”

“Ha. Sorry, no.” He addresses papà. “My father’s from Ohio? Does that help?”

“Eh?” Papà says, clearly having no idea what nationality this “Ohio” would fall under.

“It’s fine. He was joking. He knows you’re not Italian,” I clarify to Tom, even though I know it was only partially in jest, and then turn to my father.

“Papà, Tom e io dobbiamo andare presto,” I say, letting him know we need to leave soon. I’ve done my due diligence as a good daughter. Tom’s been far more impressive than I’d expected, and it’s better to cut our losses now and leave before something starts to unravel.

“Okay okay okay,” he says in English but so rapidly it sounds like he made up a new word. “Home by ten,” he says to Tom, pointing at him with his crooked left index finger.

“Yes, sir,” he says like a good soldier. He turns to grab his hat off the love seat, and papà whispers to me in Italian.

“What is on your mouth? You look like a street walker.”

In the haze of the interrogation and distracted by Tom, I forgot about the lipstick.

“Sorry, papà . . . I . . .”

“Excuse me, sir,” Tom interjects, and papà turns away from the blazing red paint on my lips. “I almost forgot. My uncle sent this last month from Cuba. I thought you might like them.”

Tom gives him a paper-covered box that papà hands over to me, leaning into his cane, which tells me he’s tiring quickly. That’s likely why he’s not pushing back harder on my lipstick or interrogating Tom about his intentions. I open the hinged cover, revealing stacked rows of rolled cigars; the earthy smell fills my nose. It hits papà a moment later, and he grunts.

“Per me?” For me?

“Yes, papà,” I say in English before transitioning into Italian. “I’ll put them in the kitchen, but only one tonight. All right?”

“Yes, Viviana. Yes,” he says irritably, but there’s a youthful gleam in his eye I haven’t seen in a while. “Thank you,” he says to Tom with a grateful tip of his head. Then to me in Italian, “Be good. Be careful. Be back before ten.”

“Arrivederci, papà,” I say with a kiss to his forehead, and then call to my sister who timidly pops her head out from the hallway like she was there listening all along. She gives a shy wave to Tom, and he rewards her with one of his most memorable smiles.

“Help him to his chair, please, Ari.”

She nods, biting her lip lightly.

“And there’s a box of cigars on the table. He’ll try to finagle you, but only one. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, bouncing on her bare feet before grabbing papà’s arm and escorting him into the back of the house. I turn to Tom, who’s now only inches from my side. He takes my elbow and guides me out the door.

“You’re really sweet with him,” Tom says once we’re in the car he borrowed for our date.

“My father?” I laugh, wondering what he’d think if he could understand everything said tonight.

“Your sister, too, I guess. You’re like the little mother of the house. It’s sweet.”

“You said that before. ‘Sweet.’” I twist my mouth like I’ve tasted something sour.

“Does that bother you?” His eyebrow is raised in mock scandal. “I thought a girl like you would like to be called sweet.”

“I’m not sure. There’s such a thing as being too sweet, I guess.”

“Hmm, I suppose.” I’m leaning forward, considering the statement, when he reaches across my body, his arm grazing my breasts as he opens his glove compartment. He takes out a silver flask and unscrews the top with one hand. Taking a long swig, he offers it to me.

“No thank you.” I push it away.

“That’s what I thought. Sweet,” he says, closing the cap and reaching for the glove compartment again.

Sweet. The way he says it hangs in the air like the heavy stench of a skunk’s spray. Tom Highward—brave, successful, handsome, possibly rich, and most surprising of all—papà likes him. And he thinks I’m some brainless little doll who plays the roles expected of her. As if I don’t have my own mind or make my own choices.

I snatch the flask from his hand and unlatch the cap.

Tom looks at me, stunned but entranced, like he’s daring me to do something that’ll surprise him.

I take a long drink, swallowing the burning liquid in one, two, three gulps. It’s whiskey, and it’s strong. I wipe the smudge of red lipstick off the rim and toss the damn-near empty flask into the glove compartment. I take out my compact and touch up my lipstick as a subtle buzz floods my body.

“That was—” Tom starts to say but stops like he can’t find the right word.

“Sweet?” I finish, clicking my compact closed.

“No. Definitely not sweet,” he says, chuckling. He revs the engine, sending a whirlwind in through the half-rolled windows. “Unexpected,” he says, finishing his previous sentence, his lip curling up in a way that could only be rivaled by Rhett Butler himself. “That, my dear, was deliciously unexpected.”