Chapter 8
GINA
Energized by the idea of shopping, Angie drags me out to the sidewalk and flags down a cab.
Once it pulls over, she settles me inside and orders the driver to a place called Soho.
“Sounds cool,” I say.
“Sounds cool? You haven’t heard of Soho?”
“Irvine, California, is pretty boring. We’re not up on you New York fashionista types.”
I turn my attention to the crowded street life outside, where pedestrians walk cheek by jowl. Back in suburban Irvine, it’s a rare occurrence to see anyone on the sidewalk at all.
Near Fifteenth Street, we pass by a gigantic Gothic building that seems to fill the entire block.
With a gasp, I recognize it as the Academy of Visual Arts from its website.
“Hey, are you okay?” Angie says as we pass it.
“Yes. I just didn’t expect to see the academy appear before me so suddenly. It looks so different than it does on the web.”
“Academy? That graduate school you spoke about last night?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dante know about this?”
“Not yet. Why?”
Angie just shrugs. “Most guys in the organization don’t want their wives to work. Or go to school either.”
“Maybe Dante’s different.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
A few minutes later, the taxi pulls over to the curb.
“Here we are,” Angie says, handing the driver some cash.
We step out onto the sidewalk.
“Cool boutique,” I say, looking at the nearest storefront. “What is this store?”
“Doors NYC,” she says proudly as we go inside. “Top boutique in Manhattan. Written up in all the fashionable magazines.”
The boutique is small but trendy. Salesgirls display full-on attitude. So I’m surprised when they smile and gesture a greeting to Angie like they know her.
“You must be a good customer.”
“Me? No. I couldn’t afford anything here. But Mary loved the fashions and dragged me here to shop with her.”
Mary!
“I don’t think this is the right fashion for me,” I say, eyeing the sexy clothing style. “I like to keep things simple …”
Even seeing them on the hanger, I know I’d never dare wear any of these revealing dresses.
“But you’re not a simple California Girl anymore. You’re the young, beautiful wife of the city’s mafia don. You have to play that role. Everyone expects you to look the part.”
Angie snatches a dress off a sleek rack.
“Try this on,” Angie says, giving me the dress while rushing me toward a changing room. “I’ll wait outside.”
I put the dress on. It’s one of those body-conscious styles that hugs your figure and shows everything.
“How are we doing?” Angie asks, pulling open the purple curtain.
"Man, it looks great on you,” she says, pulling the stretchy hemline up and the neckline down.
“No, no, the opposite way,” I say, wiggling around.
“Honey, when you go into that club, everyone is going to want to be on Dante’s arm. You’re going to have to show him, and everyone else, that you’ve got the stuff. You’re Dante’s woman. Say it after me.”
“Say what?”
“I’ve got the stuff. I’m Dante’s woman.”
“I’m not saying that,” I tell her. “And I’m not buying this dress either. It’s far too revealing.”
“Relax. You’re going to a club, not church.”
“Are you sure Dante will like it?”
She crosses her arms. “Of course he will. Especially since you’re in it.”
While I change, Angie goes over to talk to the saleswoman. When I emerge, she calls to me, “Let’s go.”
“Wait, don’t we need to pay?”
“Taken care of,” she says. “Had them put it on Dante’s account.”
A few minutes after we leave the shop, I’m struck by the image of a beautiful girl with long black hair in the window of an upscale beauty salon.
“She looks a lot like Mary, doesn’t she?” I ask.
Angie shrugs. “A little.”
“I’m going inside,” I say, swinging open the salon’s heavy door and walking up to the receptionist.
“Do you have a colorist who could color my hair black? And also add extensions, so it falls about here?” I indicate an area several inches below my shoulders.
“Of course we do. Would you like to make an appointment?”
Angie comes bustling through the door. “What’s going on here?” she asks, looking at the receptionist.
“Your friend was just asking for color and extensions.”
“Gina, what’s wrong with your hair? It’s beautiful.”
“I just want to try something different. A new look.”
She narrows her eyes. “As in?”
“I’d like to dye my hair black. We could do that today, can’t we?” I turn to the receptionist.
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We’re totally booked. But we do have some wigs you might like. It will give you an idea of what you’ll look like when you have the full treatment.”
“Wigs? Aren’t they heavy and uncomfortable?”
“No, not the new ones,” she assures me. “You’ll love them. Let me go to the back room and have the wig girl come out and show you.”
She disappears for a moment, and Angie turns to face me. “Now you’re getting a wig? And why black?” Her voice is laced with suspicion.
“I have to try this,” I explain. “You told me the secret is starting the courtship, so consider the courtship started.”
Her face changes. “Gina, I’d rethink this if I were you. Sure, play with black hair if you want. But if you’re thinking Dante will like you better if you look like Mary…”
I shake my head. “Just stay out of it, Angie.”
I sound cold, even to my own ears.
Angie means well, I remind myself.
But as much as she pretends to know everything about Dante, I’m getting the sense she doesn’t know him at all.
A woman I presume to be the wig stylist appears to greet me. “I’m Jenny,” she says, and shows me three different wigs.
“You’re really going to do this?” Angie asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “I guess I’m just glad it’s a wig and not dye.”
A half hour later, after lots of pins and teasing, I have long, dark hair. Maybe it’s not exactly like Mary’s, but it’s pretty close.
“I can’t wait for Dante to see me with my new hairstyle and dress,” I tell Angie when we’re back out on the sidewalk. “I bet he’ll love it. Now let’s stroll a bit while the sun’s still out.”
As we walk down Broadway, I’m surprised by how many men look my way. I’m still the same girl, but my long black hair seems to give me extra allure.
And when I glance at myself in the reflection of shop windows, I sometimes think I’m seeing Mary’s reflection instead of my own.
Maybe now Dante will love me the same way.
“Hold up. I need a breather,” says Angie, sinking onto a bench after we’ve been walking for a while.
“Sure. Do you mind if I take out my pad?”
“Your what?!”
I laugh. “My drawing pad. I’m a caricaturist.”
“What the hell is that?”
“I capture people in their truest state.”
“Sounds fancy. Sketch me.”
“If you’ve never seen a caricature, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
I choose my words carefully. “You’re a beautiful woman. But a good caricature must emphasize a person’s unique, distinguishing facial features while —”
“Good! So what’s the problem?” Gina asks, hands on hips.
“I didn’t finish. The bottom line is that if you want me to draw you, a ‘good’ caricature will make you look like a cartoon.”
She shrugs. “Okay. Now you got my curiosity. Do it.”
I concentrate as I sketch Angie’s long, luxuriant hair, her voluptuous lips, and large, dark eyes. A giant head over a tiny body.
“Voila!” I say, showing her the portrait.
I watch her expression. Surprise at first, and then she nods in approval. “Wow. That’s good.”
“Can we walk a bit more? I’m enjoying the energy.”
We get back to our feet, and it feels fun to walk down this fashionable street in Manhattan. Just me and my new New York best friend. And she’s a genuine second cousin to boot.
When Angie looks behind her for the third time, she puts her hand on my forearm.
“Don’t turn around, but I think we’re being followed.”
“Followed by who?”
“I don’t know,” she says, pulling me into a side street.
We stand there a minute, and then she peeks around the corner.
“Sorry. That must have been my overactive imagination. Come on, we’d better head home.”