“Ha, famous,” I laugh, stealing a triangle-shaped egg-salad sandwich on white bread and a cookie.
“You don’t know how many boys moon after you, Vivian. I gotta remind them over and over again that you’re a hostess and can’t date any of them. Otherwise, you’d have a line at your door.”
“My father would chase them all off with his shotgun. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise? Fighting Italians in Europe and on the home front.” I take a bite, grateful to have something in my stomach, even if it’s void of flavor.
Carly laughs as she opens the door of one of the refrigerated units in the back of the kitchen. I hear the clank of the Coca-Cola bottle before I see it.
“Here. I hid this for you. Thought you might be thirsty after your performance.”
“Oh, Carly! Thank you!” My mouth waters. She pops off the cap and passes the bottle my way. The carbonation sizzles and snaps; little sprays escape the top and tickle my fingers when I wrap them around the cold glass.
I take a long drink, almost too fast to even taste the syrupy cola. I know it’s unladylike and that papà thinks that all sugary drinks are poison. He’s always pushing watered-down wine on us instead of soft drinks. After smelling it on my mother’s breath for so much of my childhood, I can hardly stand the taste of wine. He thought it would cure her mental ailments, but it only made them far worse. Now the only time I drink wine is at Communion.
The music starts up again, and even with a half-full stomach and a bottle of chilled heaven in front of me, the horns and strings are a siren’s call. Carly pats my shoulder and heads toward the gymnasium with her tray in hand.
“Take your time, doll. Plenty of dances left for you tonight. No rush.” She backs out through the double doors, and the sounds of the party tempt me as the doors swing closed.
I finish the last bite of my sandwich and have moved on to the cookie when I hear the doors burst open, ushering in the cacophony again.
“Empty your tray already?” I ask, spinning around on my heel with the top half of the cookie in my mouth. But it’s not Carly standing in the doorway.
“Empty?” Tom asks, his hat clasped in front of him, his light blue eyes cold and warm at the same time.
“Oh goodness,” I gasp, forcing down the partially chewed cookie. “You frightened me! I thought you were Carly. I mean, Mrs. Tawny.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, no. It’s okay—Tom, right?” I ask, even though I for gosh-darn sure remember his name.
“Yes. And you’re Vivian Snow.”
I should correct him, explain it’s a stage name, but I kind of like being Vivian Snow to this handsome young corporal.
“I . . . I am.”
He moves to the opposite end of the kitchen island. I should mention the rules to him. We’re not allowed to be alone with the men. I should ask him to leave the kitchen and dance with me where the chaperones can see us.
And I will.
But not yet.
“You were pretty fantastic out there.” He places his hat on the counter and then picks it up again like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Well, thanks.” I put the cookie bits on a napkin next to the half-empty bottle of pop. “But I don’t think I saw you dancing.”
I know I didn’t see him dancing; he was glued to that back wall, watching my every move, but I’m not about to let on that I was looking.
“I wasn’t.” He moves closer to me, and my breathing begins to grow shallow. My pulse thumps behind my eyes and in my ears.
“Well, why not? Plenty of girls out there would be happy to dance with such an interesting fella.” He must’ve had plenty of offers.
“The girl I wanted to dance with was taken.”
Must be Barbara. All the men moon after Barbara. Probably helps that she keeps her hem two inches shorter than regulation, and rumor has it she doesn’t follow the rules about dating and drinking as closely as the rest of us.
Feeling the sting of rejection, I sweep the crumbs off the counter and into my hand and then take the last sip of my drink in one big gulp, forgetting my manners.
“You might be able to catch her now. The song’s almost over, and if I remember the lineup, there should be a slow dance next.” I point to the closed double doors and toss the crumpled paper and cookie crumbs into the garbage.
Tom takes his hat, folds it in half, and shoves it into his back pocket.
“I was talking about you. I wanted to dance with you,” he says, placing one of his hot, rough hands over mine.
My body responds with a subtle but delicious tingle between my shoulder blades and down my spine.
“I . . . I’d love to.” I’ve said these words hundreds of times to other GIs at the USO dances, but with this guy it feels different. I want to dance with him. His fingers close around mine, and he tugs ever so slightly.
“Let’s get out there, then.”
I’m blushing. Vivian Snow disappears, and once again I’m Viviana Santini, the shy daughter of immigrants. But he seems to like this shy girl as much as my stage persona.
“Excuse me; you can’t be in here!” Carly calls out. I retrieve my hand and peek around Tom to see the petite brunette wrestling her way through the kitchen doors.
“Vivian! Is that you? You should know better, hun.”
“No, it’s not Vivian’s fault, ma’am. I got lost looking for the latrine.”
Carly raises an eyebrow and looks at me to make sure his story checks out. I shrug and nod like I both agree with the soldier and have no idea what’s going on.
Carly stares up at Tom, resting her hands on her hips after putting down the empty tray.
“It’s on the other side of the hall, dear.” The tiny thirty-two-year-old says it like she’s the mother of this grown man.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says like a little boy caught shooting spitballs at the ceiling.
He walks toward the doors without another word but stops once he’s past Carly. Over her head, he mouths, “I’ll wait for you,” and winks as he finishes his exit from the kitchen.
I want to wink back, but I don’t want Carly to see, so instead I wipe the counter again. I’d like to claim I’m a terrible liar, but I’m shockingly proficient at the art of deceit. I have to be with a father at home who forbids his daughters to do anything or wear anything or go anywhere that might threaten his ideal of what it looks like to be a “good girl.”
The truth is I learned early on how to tell harmless lies in order to fit into modern life. I’ve always wondered if that’s why acting calls to me.
“Watch out for that one. I smell mischief.” Carly points to her nose and then to the doors.
“You smell egg sandwiches.”
“I smell mischief and egg sandwiches,” she says, placing the tray in the sink.
“That sounds pretty unsettling.”
“It is!” Carly laughs, loosening up.
The slow song ends, and my spirits drop, though I try not to let it show on my face. A jaunty swing number ramps up. It’s not the same as a sweet slow dance, but I wonder if Tom knows how to jitterbug.
The golden wedding band she’s never taken off glitters in the dim light as Carly places her tiny pale hand on my shoulder, abruptly very serious.