The truth was, when she wasn't onstage Lu was a little shy. But it wasn't just shyness that made her want to duck out of the restaurant dining room. She wasn't sure why she insisted on staying by herself before and after a performance, but she knew if she had to meet people face-to-face after she'd entertained them, some of the magic would be gone—for her and for them. And the magic was everything. So she hurried to the back of the dining room before Mrs. Benedetto could catch her eye.

“Come with me,” said a voice at her side. She whirled around and saw a young man walking fast to keep up with her. “I'll take you to the kitchen,” he said. “I bet you haven't eaten anything.” She looked at him more closely. He was slim, but not skinny—she could see the muscles in his arms through his jacket—and he had an olive complexion and thick dark hair that curled around his thin face. His nose was on the large side, although it wasn't so big that it was ugly, his mouth was full, and there was something a little cynical in his dark eyes. And he was smiling at her.

“I can't eat before I sing,” she admitted. Something about him made her feel comfortable although she had never seen him before.

“The greats never can,” he said knowledgeably “You've got to be hungry.”

And then she felt really shy. “They've … stopped serving food …” she said, and trailed off as his smile got even bigger. He wasn't as old as she'd first thought he was.

“Yeah, but I've got pull,” he said. “My dad owns this place.” He held out his hand. “Your teacher is my aunt Adele. I'm Ricky Gaspari.”

*   *   *

RICKY'S BRANCH OF the Gaspari clan was well known in New Haven; his father was Vincent Gaspari, the owner of three popular restaurants. The jewel of the trio was the Villa Veneto. It perched on a bluff above the West Haven shoreline, and if you had dinner on the back terrace, the water seemed so close, it was like you were eating on the beach. In addition to the spectacular view and great food, Ricky's father had guaranteed the success of his biggest restaurant by building it on the trolley line from downtown New Haven. It was as easy to get to the Villa Veneto as it was to get to Savin Rock, the amusement park nearby.

Vincent himself was also a draw at the restaurant, greeting his patrons at the door, remembering their names, flirting with the women, and treating them all like dear personal friends. Of course it was all an act; everyone in the Italian community knew that Vincent Gaspari was actually a calculating man driven by a boundless ambition for his family, but the show he put on was so good that no one cared if it was real.