Eliana looked away from him, and the tension was growing unbearable for Ross. “You have a lot of people to greet. Thanks again for the invitation.”

“You’re welcome,” Maurizio said. “Enjoy yourself. Drink lots of wine. There is much wine.”

Maurizio stepped away, pulling Eliana with him. She glanced back at Ross, her face revealing nothing but her eyes shining with longing.

Ross went to the buffet table. He loaded up a platter, took a glass of wine, then sat down at a table with an older couple and two young, caramel-skinned girls in their midteens who were already eating. The girls were awkward around him at first, as he was both handsome and foreign; their dark eyes darted from each other to him.

One of the girls said to the other, “He’s carino. Was he one of the workers?”

“My brother said he came for the first day. He’s Eliana Ferrini’s friend.”

“Where is he from? England?”

“No, he looks American. Don’t you think he looks a little like Mel Gibson?”

“Mel Gibson isn’t American.”

“What if he spoke Italian? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

“Certo, certo.” They both giggled at this.

Ross let them talk about him for several more minutes before he greeted them in near-perfect Italian. The girls both blushed, but Ross only laughed and they soon overcame their embarrassment. They began asking him questions about American music, American girls and whether or not he had ever met Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson.

Though he resisted looking at Eliana, it was difficult and he failed occasionally, glancing at her as she played the proper role of the capo’s wife. She shared her table with Maurizio, Alessio, Manuela and her husband, Vittorio, Anna and Andrea, Luca and his wife, Concetta, who was busy talking with Alessio. Alessio was also dressed up for the occasion, wearing a clip-on tie and a little sports coat. As he looked at them, Ross felt like an exile.

Eliana suddenly looked over at him as if she knew his thoughts; their eyes met briefly and she smiled then turned away.

Before Ross finished his plate, some of the men began moving the buffet tables to an adjoining room, and the musical trio moved among the tables, enticing the guests to dance. The older couples pirouetted to the liscio, an Italian waltz, while the younger generation mimicked them with their own, more physical version.

After every few songs the band would take a break and turn on a CD of Latino music. Then the older generation would retire or try to follow the younger dancers. During a Latino song one of the young women at his table took Ross’s hand. “Vorrebbe ballare?”

He answered, “I don’t really know how to dance.”

“See Giacomo?” She pointed to an elderly man not five feet tall, with a face as wrinkled as olive bark. He was joyfully dancing by himself, his arms out as if around a phantom partner, oblivious to the cessation of the music. Ross smiled at the sight of him.