“How many languages do you speak?” she asked after they were seated. The phrases she’d learned from Nonna—mostly mangia, mangia—were as useful here as junior-high Latin.
“Italian’s the most beautiful.” With his straight face undermined by the deepening smile lines at the corners of his eyes, he continued, “The language matches the women.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me—the number of languages is classified information.”
“You said it, not me.” His full smile highlighted how ridiculous continuing to interrogate him across a vase of peonies was, but didn’t provide answers. “May I recommend the risotto?”
After six months with pans of food on a steam table as a visual aid and two and a half days of airport food, using a menu, even the English one the hostess provided, overwhelmed her. She followed Wulf’s suggestions and chose risotto made with vodka and pistachios as a first course, and veal saltimbocca alla romana for her main dish.
With the basics of ordering food and tasting the wine accomplished, they circled back to looking at each other and hunting for things to say that weren’t weirdly awkward. Every question she wanted to blurt out sounded crazy across a pressed tablecloth, but what she knew about him was crazy. They had to start somewhere.
Her lips parted, but he jumped first. “Your name’s Italian, isn’t it?”
If he wanted to exchange background tidbits as a warm-up, she’d play along. “My grandparents emigrated after World War II. One of my grandmothers came to America on the Andrea Doria, before it sank.” In college she’d crafted a version of her family story that she could share to appear normal when others inquired. “And you? What type of name is Wardsen?”
“A Danish patronym. The ending sen means son of.” His shoulders twitched as if he’d startled himself.
“Son of Ward?”
“Ward’s a modern version of Wonred.” His eyebrows drew together in thought. “My...ancestor...was named Wonred.”
“Your parents really chose Wulf? Or is it a nickname you adopted when you joined—”
His brief head shake reminded her not to name his unit.
“Wulf’s better than Wonred.” He shrugged. “That means lackwit or sloppy drunk. I’m officially a son of a drunk.” As he enunciated the last word, his eyes darted first to one edge of the table, then back to the flowers on the other edge, as if he’d become suddenly wary of an unexpected attack. She had the impression this anecdote might be one of the more truthful things he’d told her. “Don’t know why I still use it.”
“Chiesa means church. Nothing like extra pressure in Catholic school.”
They sipped wine until the shadows receded from his eyes. Drinking alcohol with enlisted personnel at unit functions wasn’t fraternization, but this restaurant, with its dim lighting and tiny tables, wasn’t a hail and farewell at Club Hood.
Stay focused on questions, she chided herself. That’s the purpose of this dinner.
“Your mother’s a wonderful baker.” Again, he changed the subject. “And an excellent judge of clothing. Do you have other family?”
“Some.” She reached for her wineglass to cover her pause. She didn’t talk about her stepfather Carl or her stepbrother. Twenty years ago, when her mother had married her third husband, she’d drilled her daughter never to talk about her new family. Never tell our name to people who don’t know it. Never tell anyone where we’re going or where we went or who we went with. Not ever. As an adult the dictum had been easy to follow, because she’d tired of boyfriends who either dropped her when they suspected the nature of Carl’s business or made constant clichéd jokes about the mob. “You?”
“About the same.”
“Be careful. We shouldn’t get too personal. Anything you tell me might be a security breach.” She started laughing and had to set the blue cut-glass goblet down abruptly to avoid spilling wine. This was June in a lovely restaurant in Rome, and she’d already reminded him they were thousands of miles from everyone who knew them. Perhaps tonight she should enjoy a sample of what life for women outside the army was like. No deployments, no rank, no archaic rules—only dinner. Dress rehearsal for next year in the civilian dating scene.
“Can you say all that again, slowly? I like watching the way your lips move.”
“Then watch closely.” She leaned forward until the tabletop pressed into the space under her ribs. It brought her very near to him. “You’re. A. Big. Liar.”
“Once more? I didn’t quite hear—”
“Gladly. Biii—”
He popped a tiny pickled gherkin into her mouth.
She chewed. “Ohh, that’s good. Vinegary and salty and sweet.”
“Thought you’d like it.” After the waiter refilled their wineglasses, he continued. “So why’d you decide to be a doctor?”
“I drew a quartermaster assignment graduating from ROTC.” Her turn to shrug. “With my luck, I’d have ended up commanding a laundry, so I opted for med school. Fewer suds.”
“Now who’s not being honest?” Their first course arrived, interrupting him, but he kept his gaze fixed on her face. “I thought I asked a fair question.”
She looked down first, and studied her spoon and fork as if it mattered which she used for risotto. Talking about her father wasn’t like talking about Carl. It wasn’t betrayal. It was just...personal.
“When I was five, my father died. He had stomach cancer, but no one knew until the end. Everyone thought he had ulcers, and some people said he drank too much, but he barely touched alcohol. He was a big Italian guy who delivered vegetables, you know. Strong. So he couldn’t be sick. And then he was gone. My first stepfather died after only a few years too.” What had made her share that? She tried not to revisit her past, but Wulf’s story about his name had seemed so personal. “Guess I want other kids to have their dads longer.”
“Then you’re in the right job.” His voice was very soft.
He didn’t know she was a short-timer with less than a year to go, so he couldn’t have intended to make her squirm, but she drew a furrow in the saffron-colored rice and stared at her food instead of him anyway.
“Why not an E.R. somewhere? Why the army?”
The emotions bottled in her chest shattered, leaving one: anger. “People ask women that all the time. They ever ask you?” Dammit, they’d been doing so well. “Who says, ‘Hey, badass guy, why are you in the army?’” Part of her registered his head shake, but she couldn’t stop. “Nobody gives your career choice a second thought unless you’re a woman, then they’re always asking why, why, as if it’s a mystery why a woman would want to serve her country. Well, I do. I’m an officer in the army. They paid every penny of my Princeton tuition and now I’m giving back. And I love it.” Her speech hung over the table, a sharp and angry contrast to the soft pink peonies, as she dropped her hands to her lap. Nothing short of traction could stop Italian hand-talking. And nothing, not even how much she believed in her mission for the army, was going to keep her from achieving her dream of a nine-to-five life.
“Wow,” he said, staring at her with raised brows.
“Oh, geez.” She wanted to slip under the table, but all she could do was cover her eyes with her palm. “You didn’t deserve that rant. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m more sorry. I never realized how...sexist?...that question sounded. You’re right that no one ever asks me why I’m in the army. I deserved to be set straight.”