that separated her from her classmates, who wore jeans and T-shirts and the latest brand of tennis
shoes. They walked into a dingy neighborhood with bright-colored signs advertising CAPPUCCINO,
GELATO, VINO. Evangeline recognized the neighborhood at once—they had come to Little Italy
often in the past. She knew the area well.
They stopped before a café with metal tables strewn upon the sidewalk. Taking her hand, her father
led her into a crowded room where a warm gust of sweet-smelling steam fell upon them. The walls
were filled with black-and-white pictures of Italy, the frames gilded and ornate. At the bar, men drank
espresso, newspapers spread before them, hats pulled low over their eyes. A glass case filled with
desserts drew Evangeline’s attention—she stood before it, hungry, wishing her father would allow
her to choose from the frosted cakes arrayed like bouquets under soft lights. Before she had a chance
to speak, a man stepped from behind the bar, wiped his hands upon a red apron, and shook her
father’s hands as if they were old friends.
“Luca,” he said, smiling warmly.
“Vladimir,” her father said, returning the man’s smile, and Evangeline knew that they must indeed
have been old friends—her father rarely displayed affection in public.
“Come, have something to eat,” Vladimir said in heavily accented English. He pulled out a chair
for her father.
“Nothing for me.” Her father gestured to Evangeline as she sat. “But I believe my daughter has her
eye on i dolci.”
To Evangeline’s delight, Vladimir opened the glass case and allowed her to choose whatever she
wished. She took a petite pink frosted cake with delicate blue marzipan flowers scattered over its
surface. Holding the plate as if it might break in her hands, she walked to a high metal table and sat,
her Mary Janes folded against the legs of a metal parlor chair, the thick planks of the wooden floor
shining below. Vladimir brought her a glass of water and set it near her cake, asking her to be a good
girl and wait there while he spoke to her father. Vladimir struck her as ancient—his hair was pure
white and his skin heavily lined—but there was something playful in his manner, as if they shared a
joke. He winked at Evangeline, and she understood that the two men had business to attend to.
Happy to comply, Evangeline worked a spoon into the heart of the cake and found it filled with a
thick, buttery cream that tasted ever so slightly of chestnuts. Her father was fastidious about their diet
—they did not spend money on such extravagant confections—and so Evangeline grew up without a
taste for rich food. The cake was a rare treat, and she endeavored to eat very slowly, to make it last
as long as possible. As she ate, her attention distilled to a single act of pure enjoyment. The warm
café, the noise of the patrons, the sunlight burnishing the floor bronze—all of this receded from her
perception. Surely she would not have noticed her father’s conversation either, if it had not been for
the intensity with which he spoke to Vladimir. They sat a few tables away, near the window, close
enough that she could hear.
“I have no choice but to see them,” her father said, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. “It has been
nearly three years since we lost Angela.” Hearing him speak her mother’s name was such a rarity that
it stopped Evangeline cold.
“They have no right to keep the truth from you,” Vladimir said.
At this her father inhaled deeply from the cigarette and said, “It is my right to understand what
happened, especially after the assistance I gave during Angela’s research, the midnight interruptions
when she was in her lab. The stress it caused during her pregnancy. I was there in the beginning. I
supported her decisions. I also made sacrifices. As has Evangeline.”
“Of course,” Vladimir said. He called over a waiter and ordered coffee. “You have the right to
know everything. All I ask you to consider is whether this information is worth the risk you take to
obtain it. Think of what might happen. You are safe here. You have a new life. They have forgotten
about you.”
Evangeline studied her cake, hoping her father would not notice the intense interest his
conversation had aroused. They simply did not speak of her mother’s life and death. But when
Evangeline leaned forward, eager to hear more, she set the table off balance. The glass of water fell
to the floor, chunks of ice skittering upon the parquet. Startled, the men stared at Evangeline. She tried
to mask her shame by wiping the water from the table with a napkin and going back to her cake, as if
nothing at all had happened. With a look of reproach, her father shifted in his chair and resumed the