Sandras Family
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Chapter 14—Little Italy
Interlude: 25th Anniversary
Cindy:
After the fittings, they went to have Italian food in Little Italy. Aunt Francine forgot to mention some other people might drop by. I am told there were 47 major film and theater awards represented. That is, 47 on that night. The count has gone up since. On the other side of the room was Susan Farwell and all the ballet people. As a little girl I loved that Mom danced the Sugar Plum Fairy. Now, consider who she danced it with.
Sheila:
Everyone talks about how much I influenced Christine. That worked both ways. I found myself imitating my so-called submissive, sometimes consciously. I mused that Sean and I had spoken very little that morning. One rarely speaks much to Christine. At Wardrobe the pattern continued. I acquiesced without a word. I found it unusual, but no one had commented
The trip between the islands—Staten to Manhattan—was relaxing. I had a bit of food, but otherwise I was content to watch the byplay between Siobhan and Francine. Siobhan struggling to find ways to manage the flow of Francine’s verbiage, with was finding some success by counterpunching. Francine has the soul of a teacher. She loves to lecture, but her favorite style is Socratic. If a well posed question is a jewel to teacher, Siobhan was a diamond mine. They squabbled like siblings or an old married couple.
It was a welcome distraction. I had not been to Manhattan since The Nutcracker and never for pleasure. Nothing I saw that day motivated me to return. Francine arranged parking. Russell escorted us through the streets. Francine let us in a building’s side door, then the rear door of a workshop. We met Jonathan, who took us to a quiet work area where I finally saw the finished dress. It was so beautiful I fought tears.
It was like a dress for Galadriel—sleeveless deep forest green with an overlaid carpet of white florets. The white sandals had that sturdy Dance look. The skirts were full and subtly weighted. I could spin-flare them enough to show my garters. The thought of exposing myself like that made me moist. In some ways I really was like Christine. Not all. Sean would never buy this dress like this for Christine.
Over the corset, the dress went on without a problem. If anything, I could let out half an inch. While the bust was quite snug, Francine insisted there was room to work. I bowed to her expertise. Jonathan helped me into the sandals. When he looked up, it was not at my face. Just playing at gay there, Jon? I shook off the thought and donned the white opera gloves. Francine pinned on the old and blue broach. Then she pulled out a pair of emerald earrings. My first instinct was to decline, but it was her moment and I refused to ruin it.
They took many pictures. Francine and Christine bridesmaid’s dresses were adorable. Just before I asked someone to fetch Siobhan, she came through the door, angry at being abandoned. She cut a fine figure. The semi-formal suit was an inspired choice. It was an outdoor wedding and the style flattered Siobhan’s generous figure. Her breasts tented the jacket. Men’s style or not, there was no mistaking Siobhan’s sex. I particularly liked the wide silk bow tie.
We all collected for more pictures. My favorite was of Siobhan and Francine, the long and short of it. Sean’s favorite was of me with Siobhan. That shot resurfaced ten years later, during an election campaign. I never figured out if Siobhan’s opponent had leaked it, or if she had. Whichever, Siobhan won the election.
It was one of the happiest days of my life, but I needed to steel myself for one of Francine’s fetes.
Siobhan:
Once I was fully dressed, I went in search of everyone else. My unnamed assistant wanted me to wait for Jonathan. Right. Sometimes being bigger than the guys has advantages. The work area gave me mixed reactions. Many did not react all, costumed characters likely being common. Of those that did react, it was mostly, ‘You go, girl.’ The flustered flunky probably contributed to that. Several fingers pointed, so it was easy to find the way, to a point.
The pointing directed me to a hallway. There was only one suitable door, but I hesitated and almost did not open the door. It was a defining moment. When I persevered, the scene appeared scripted—servants attending a fine lady. Francine and Christine were quite fetching in their off-white dresses, with green trim. Jonathan and an assistant were reassuring Sheila. I remember my moment of hesitation at the door, because of what I would have missed. The sight Sheila in her dress has never faded.
How to describe a vision? Sheila compared the dress to something for an elf queen. She has the magic part right. My mind goes more to Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Whether Tolkien’s queen or Shakespeare’s, Sheila was ethereal. In that dress her uncanny grace seemed inevitable, necessary. The vision lasted only a moment before Sheila embraced me. I always said I would have married her myself.
We spent several minutes posing for pictures, as if Justin would take none at the wedding. That done, all the clothes were rechecked for fit, with the occasional pin or chalk mark added. The measurements we endured on Tuesday proved out. As we left, Francine commented on the accuracy of the tailoring and how well everything went.
We changed back to our street clothes, then left. As we marched back, I wondered if this was all I would see of Manhattan. Silly me. Trust Francine to think of food. Cabs were called. Russell held the door for me. I would not have appreciated the gesture a week before. He must have noticed, because he mumbled something like, ‘Look real nice.’ I punched him in the arm, which made him smile. Then he rubbed his arm, which made me smile—until he winked.
We headed south to Little Italy. New Jersey thrives on Italian food and this was the mecca everyone talkrd about. Francine had a room reserved at Civitano Brothers Trattoria, on Cleveland near Canal. It did not seem like we had done much, but the time added up. Nine to Five employees filled the sidewalks. I was glad we were not taking the subway somewhere.
Civitano’s is an old name in a new location. Francine’s usual running commentary told me that the original brothers had died in the 1930s. The proprietors insisted on serving wine, which required the restaurant front for a speakeasy. Making wine was not safe during prohibition. For generations the restaurant had held a memorial plaque. Francine had seen it, years before. Not much later, a fire gutted the building. Rather than wait for the hulk to be demolished and rebuilt, the Civitano family decided to move a few blocks. They leased the ground floor of an art deco office building.
The restaurant was nearly full when we walked through it. As we passed the bar, Francine threw over her shoulder that there was booze upstairs. We continued past the restrooms and kitchen, climbed a stair at the rear. This opened to a very plush hallway. The open door next to the stairwell read Conference Room. Francine explained that the lawyers who owned the building had an arrangement with the restaurant—preferred rates on catering and private parties in exchange for use of this room after business hours. It may have been after five o’clock on Friday, but there were a lot of lights showing under doors up the hallway.
Inside was a buffet table spread with antipasto, a large table set for eight, several small tables, and a bar with barista. I say barista because of the massive brass espresso machine behind the bar. Francine went straight toward it. I followed to see if they could do a decent Irish coffee in this type of place.
I found Christine at my elbow. I asked what she wanted. She said aguardiente. Where had she picked up that? I asked if she wanted it sweet or straight. She looked confused, but shook off the sweet. It was time for some education. I asked Francine how Sheila liked her coffee. She t
old me it was covered. I asked for galliano, sambuca, water and ice.
Sheila was seated at the big table, where a waitress was taking her order. I carried my tray over and sat down. Christine slid in beside me. Sheila looked curious, but said nothing. Upon closer inspection, she wore an unusual expression. The closest I could describe it was interested tranquility. After her tension on Wednesday, it was a welcome change. I glanced at Christine, who followed my gaze and showed a trace of a smile. That was something to chew on.
At the moment, I asked what Sheila had ordered. She told me figs were in season. She had ordered a plate of fig based appetizers. Sean had mentioned figs concerning their first date. I told her she was in luck, because I had something that would go well with figs. I poured water into a glass. Into that I drizzled some sambuca. The liquor clouded on contact, which I always thought was cool. So did Christine.
Sheila just smiled. She had been like that all day—a serene smile regardless of what was going on around her. Nothing seemed to phase her. Nothing moved her to speak. Even for Sheila, she was very quiet. I might have considered further, except the hors d’oeuvres arrived. There was a whole platter of figs, prepared a variety of ways. Sheila pointed to one with a soft white cheese, wrapped in prosciutto. It was excellent—sweet, salt and creamy at once.
As I was about to try a different one, a voice behind me asked, ‘Those look tasty. May I try one?’ I turned to find Edith Dryden, flanked by Angela Molinari. While I struggled to close my mouth, Sheila held out the plate so they could each have access. Both ladies took a sample, then sat down at the table. Edith Dryden asked how the fitting had gone. Sheila produced her tablet and pulled up the pictures. As ethereal as I thought Sheila looked, my suit caused as much discussion.
Before I realized it, I was on a first name basis with one of New York’s leading socialites and one of Broadway’s greatest legends. Both were famous beauties, which would once have had me tongue tied. They had sufficient grace to make me feel accepted and respected. This was fortunate, since I needed to serve as Christine’s stand in, introducing the bride and telling the awkward stories. Sheila pinked a couple of times, but there was never a warning flash in her eyes.
After Edith and Angela, the cream of theater society passed by to pay respects to the bride. There were too many for the table, so we stood. A line formed immediately and went on for quite some time. To some degree, the turnout was out of respect for Francine. Most of the younger generation attended at her request.
However, the old guard was also well represented. Pedro de la Garza had called Sheila a goddess. Such words, from such a man, had real weight. Everyone who was anyone wanted to meet her. Sheila looked like a queen in her wedding dress, but the clothes only accented the reality.
Somewhere in there, we ate dinner.
Francine:
I checked the damage to Christine’s legs while donning my bridesmaid’s costume. Next week I would go to the club and make changes. For a moment, I considered sneaking a quick picture. Then I realized that neither Christine nor Sheila would mind. Later, when we were changing for the party, I had Christine strip bare and spread on the floor.
She did a full 180° split, which impressed me. I took shots of her entire length, toe to toe. Then I took close ups of the ass and genitals. That was when I noticed the gaps. I had her turn over, so I could examine the labia closer. The places where the clips sat were obvious. One spot had a red line up to it, but not past. Another had a stripe slightly to one side. This stripe faded to a stop after about an inch. The double stripe which led to the anus skipped a space, then ended at the clitoris.
I rarely talk to Christine—no verbal feedback. Regardless, what I saw would have stricken me dumb. In full view of a discerning crowd, Sheila had armored Christine’s most sensitive areas against the whip, using weighted clips and an ass plug. Holy shit. I would bet money that no one else had caught it.
Strike that. No one but Christine, who said nothing. The expression on her face and the tear on her cheek told her story. Christine watched me work through it all. When I reached the part about wondering what I had done to deserve a friend like Sheila, Christine said, ‘Emeralds.’ I had to laugh. Obviously my gift had not gone as unnoticed as I hoped. There was a question on Christine’s face, so I told her, ‘About $375,000.’ Then it was time to eat.
I had reserved a room for Sheila at my favorite restaurant and put the word out that she would be there. I expected Pedro and Angela to drop by, but Edith Dryden was a bonus. I was not surprised when Susan Farwell (yes the Susan Farwell) came by. She had danced Clara to Sheila’s Sugar Plum Fairy. Both were well received and Susan often referred to the performance. What I did not expect was the staff of Susan’s school and all the major players in the City Ballet Company—Giesla Kirtland, Lisl Rhinehardt, Rudolph Nerovski, George Blanchard. The list was endless. Lincoln Center was only blocks away. It must have emptied for an hour.
Anyone else would be shell shocked, but not Sheila. In a room full of great ballerinas and choreographers, she was grace personified. She reminded me of Christine’s serene acceptance of the remarkable. It was as if a higher being deigned to meet with mortals for a few hours.
Naturally it was not all ballet and theater. Where stars go, press will follow. The wedding in New Jersey was already news. Having a tie to Manhattan fine arts pushed it over the top. The New York Times did an article in their Sunday magazine. Later that month, a major bridal magazine made Sheila their cover bride. Both articles featured shots of Sheila meeting someone at Civitano’s.
An unexpected sidelight was the emergence of Siobhan—she shone. Normally it is the Maid of Honor’s duty to run interference for the bride. Christine would never be up to that task, so Siobhan filled the role. She greeted people, answered questions, made space for pictures and generally was the perfect aide.
While acting as Sheila’s second, Siobhan made no attempt to hide her natures. Neither did she exaggerate anything for effect. Normally smooth and gracious people come across as stiff and stilted next to Sheila. Siobhan came across as refreshingly genuine. I understand this served her well when she went into politics.
For me, the highlight of the evening was when Jordan Edwards greeted Sheila. Jordan wrote the glowing Times review of the Nutcracker. They met backstage that night and Sheila remembered him. It was one of two times Sheila blushed. The other was when Susan Farwell claimed that no one ever pushed her as hard as Sheila. I would have blushed at that.
In all, it was the best party I ever threw. I almost forgot to eat.
Sheila:
After the pictures were taken and downloaded to my tablet, I undressed. The others had gone to other rooms, so I had a moment alone. I removed the earrings and looked at them against the light. Anyone that has seen Gigi knows that the finest emeralds have a blue light in their depths. I was not Aunt Alicia, but I could see that these emeralds had a blue shimmer. I did not understand why Francine wanted to bury me in expensive gifts, but there it was.
These earrings were probably north of a quarter million dollars. Who was I to refuse? Siobhan had given me her family’s heritage. Christine had given me her body and her memories. In context it was not that extravagant a gift. Money was what Francine had and she was keeping the scale small, though another Bentley might have cost less.
I was laughing at the idea of Francine giving me a Rolls Royce when Siobhan returned. She saw the earrings in my hand and asked, ‘Tiffany?’ I replied, ‘Or someone like them. There is blue fire inside.’ Siobhan’s eyebrows ro
se. ‘The really good stuff. I would put the solitaires at a karat or more each, with another karat in the other four stones. On the Gold Coast, that would run three to four hundred. I hope you are willing to accept them.’
That was the rub. There is a difference between accepting and not refusing. As problematic as they were, I had accepted Siobhan and Christine’s gifts. I could do no less for Francine. Before I could thank Siobhan for her input, she nodded her head in satisfaction. Christine seemed to be rubbing off on everyone. Siobhan said, ‘Yes, she does.’ and winked. I was shocked for a moment, then realized Siobhan had read my lips. It gave us both a good laugh.
That was when Francine and Christine returned. Francine looked troubled, but Christine shook her head and gave me a wink. Oh. I mimed a camera and Christine nodded. I would need to get those pictures later. For the moment, we paraded back to the street and took a cab to Little Italy.
Francine had set up an open house party. First to arrive were Edith Dryden and Angela Molnari, but soon I had a line of well wishers. I had not seen Susan Farwell since the night of The Nutcracker, but she greeted me as a close friend and introduced me to her staff and friends. It seemed like half the famous performers in New York were there, and of course press followed on their heels. It was thrilling, daunting and I have an album of pictures to remember it.
I was very blessed.
Chapter 15—Applewood Smoke
Interlude: 25th Anniversary
Cindy:
Meanwhile Dad was watching the Amish do what Amish do. There is this impression that the Amish are humorless and grumpy. Dad says they are just people with a different background. Doing without electricity does not make them stupid. It also does not prevent them from enjoying a party after a lot of hard work. Whatever else, you have to love their food.
Sean:
By one o’clock I decided to call an end, because I could dot only so many i’s. I told Helen I was going to visit Sheila’s new receptionist and then go home. I could be wrong, but I thought I caught a trace of relief. Helen’s job would be easier when she could tell everyone I was gone for a week.
Sheila did not have an office yet. The room that would be hers needed conversion. However, she did have a receptionist’s desk in front of the door. I made a small bet with myself that Roxanna would be doing something which would give me reason to scold her. Either I misjudged, she was lucky, or she had an early warning system. When I came into the room, Roxanna was taking a tutorial on our phone system. At a guess, someone in HR had gotten her started.
She earned another brownie point by not ignoring me. I may be the boss, but that has never stopped rudeness. Roxanna heard me coming and quickly gave me her full attention. I asked how things were going. There had been a great deal of press attention early in the day, but it died. Most likely someone tipped them that Sheila and Francine were out of town. Roxanna was using the time to learn the phone’s recording functions.
I like initiative, so I called Emilia Lucann to get Roxanna set up with a battery of classes. It would give her something to do while we were gone. If the position did not work out, the knowledge would be useful to her. Then we talked about Roxanna’s experiences at her last job. Ouch. I began to understand why Francine had paid to fly her across the country. I text Helen to get her enrolled in some counseling.
When I looked for them, I could see the signs of someone preparing to deal with abuse. It had been some time since I had needed to handle a serious sexual harassment issue in my own company, but it was a road I remembered well. My first two years as CEO had been full of angry meetings and fulsome departures. There was still a sampling of harassment victims I could call upon.
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