V Is for Vengeance

tea?”
    “I’m fine. What if an occasion comes up?”
    “I guess I’ll just have to go shopping. You know what a chore that is,” she said, smiling.
    “Might require a trip to New York,” he said, matching her tone.
    “Exactly.”

    Dinner at the club was pleasant. The place had an old-fashioned fusty air about it, like the home of a rich maiden aunt. The once grand furniture was upholstered in a peach brocade that had seen better days. The couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings. Some of the cushions were lumpy and the arms were frayed in places, but an upgrade would require a membership assessment, which would set off endless disagreements and endless complaints. The club was largely given over to couples in their seventies and eighties, whose homes had appreciated in value while their retirement income had dwindled, subject to the whims of the economy. The so-called younger members were in their fifties and sixties, better off financially perhaps but destined for the same fate. Old friends would start dropping off one by one and in the end, they’d be grateful to spend an evening with the few tottering acquaintances who were left.
    Robert and Gretchen were their usual ten minutes late. The delay was so consistent, she wondered why they couldn’t manage to be on time. The four of them hadn’t seen one another since the Christmas holidays, so they caught up over drinks. Their relationship was amicable but superficial. All four were ardent Republicans, which meant any talk of politics was quickly addressed as they were all in agreement. Nora had met the Hellers in Los Angeles shortly before she and Channing were married. Robert was a plastic surgeon who’d been felled by a heart attack ten years earlier. He was fifty-two at the time, and from that point on had cut his practice back to two days a week. Gretchen was his first and only wife, also in her early sixties, but with the years artfully erased. She had big green eyes, white-blond hair, and flawless skin. Her boobs were fake, but not conspicuously so.
    The Hellers were the first to buy in Montebello—a six-thousand-square-foot French Normandy house at Nine Palms, which in addition to the golf course offered one-acre parcels in a gated community with like-minded souls. Robert was a dumpling of a man, half a head shorter than Gretchen, bald, and apple-shaped. The two so plainly adored each other that Nora was often envious. Tonight she was especially grateful for their company because it kept the flow of conversation light and inconsequential. Nora managed to remain gracious while keeping her distance from her husband. At moments, she saw his gaze settle on her quizzically, as though he sensed the difference in her without being able to put his finger on it. She knew he wouldn’t ask for fear she’d tell him something he didn’t want to know.
    They moved from drinks in the parlor to the dining room where they ordered their second round of drinks, menus open in front of them. There was a set selection of entrées at surprisingly reasonable prices. Where else could you order Salisbury steak or beef Stroganoff for $7.95, with a salad and two sides? These were foods from the 1950s, nothing trendy, spicy, or ethnic. Nora was debating between the pan-seared petrale sole and the roast chicken and mashed potatoes when Gretchen leaned toward Robert and placed a hand on his sleeve. “Oh my god. You won’t believe who just walked in.”
    Nora was sitting with her back to the entrance so she had no idea who Gretchen was referring to. Robert glanced discreetly to the side and said, “Shit.”
    Two men passed the table in the wake of the maître d’ who was leading the way. The first Nora knew by sight though she didn’t remember his name. The second was Lorenzo Dante. She dropped her gaze, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks. Despite his claim he might be there, he was the last person in the world she had actually expected to see at Nine Palms. She’d put the meeting with him out of her mind, refusing to think about the awkward transaction with the ring. She’d returned the ring to her jewelry box, wishing she hadn’t been so adamant in her refusal of the seventy-five thousand dollars. She should have taken it.
    Nora leaned forward. “Who is he?”
    Under her breath, Gretchen said, “Lorenzo Dante’s son. They call him Dante.” Then she mouthed, “He’s Mafia.”
    Robert picked up on the comment and responded with