We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

The Famous DiTomaso Ten Year Dinner: Rachel, Summer, 1979

Rachel was in a dress, for the first time of her own volition. It wasn't revealing or constraining in any way, just a loose short-sleeved A-line in sky blue. Her hair was brushed properly, no tangles; she'd worked on it for hours. She still wore sneakers, though; no one was getting her in shoes that looked pretty but hurt her feet and couldn't be run in.

She walked beside her dad, who, miracle of miracles, was able to make it. For once he was not rumpled. His slacks were clean and fresh. He wore a shirt other than white, and with short sleeves. He wore shiny shoes. They walked down Lawrence Street on a beautiful Saturday evening, the sun still only beginning its descent.

They crossed Ewen when it was safe, and then the short walk further to the grounds of Holy Spirit Church. On the south side of the property was the chapel itself, on the west, the rectory (Joe once told her it was where he had his Catechism classes, and it was where the priest lived too), and on the north, the hall where the party was. Others were already gathered outside: Lauren and her parents; Sunny and his family, his rarely-seen father standing proudly in a grey tunic and trousers, wearing a red turban, his mother in a gorgeous orange sari. Sunny was still in his t-shirt and jeans, his sister in a green dress, running around in circles. Al was only with his mom. His dad "preferred" not to come, Al said.

They said their hellos and walked into the hall, where a lot of well-dressed Italians were already mingling, chatting in their fluid language, smoking, drinking aperitifs. The head table was occupied by the DiTomasos, plus Martha Anderson and her husband James, and the priest, severe looking in his black blazer, shirt and pants, his Roman collar, and round-rimmed glasses on his balding pate. The other long tables were arranged like the other three sides of a square, with a large open space in the middle of the room. The tables were covered in white paper and set with plain white plates and stainless steel cutlery.

Joe elbowed his way through the crowds to get to them. He was grinning wider than Rachel had ever remembered him grinning. "You made it!" he said.

"We weren't going to miss out on the food," she said. Her dad nudged her, and she recited what he'd instructed her to say. "Thank you again for inviting us. Congratulations on ten years in Canada."

He didn't seem to hear her. "You're wearing a dress," he remarked in amazement.

She reddened at the attention. "Yeah, Mrs. Anderson got it for me that day we went downtown. Do you like it?"

He shrugged. "I guess it's okay because it's a special occasion. I like you better in what your normally wear, though."

She knew he was trying to say he liked her the way she was when they played and hung out together, that this version of her wasn't authentic, but what he'd said annoyed her for some reason. "What? I can't change my look every now and then?" she challenged.

"I think she looks pretty," Lauren said.

"Me, too!" Al put in, maybe a little too forcefully, because everyone was looking at him. His mom smirked knowingly at Rachel, and she wished she hadn't said anything.

"Well, my dad says dinner should be ready any time now, so you can find a seat and pour yourself some wine or water or pop," Joe said. "We're going to do a toast before dinner."

They seemed to want to sit together, this pocket of the neighbourhood surrounded by so many Italians they didn't know. Rachel immediately grabbed for one of the tall, dark green glass bottles of 7-up and poured herself a glass.

Eventually everyone began sitting, and to Rachel's surprise, Johnny DiTomaso stood and said, "Welcome, everybody. We're so glad you could all make it to this dinner to celebrate our being here for ten years." He was striking, with his hair poofed into an Elvis-style quiff with lots of hair spray, and he wore a long sleeved paisley shirt with a wide collar and cuffs. Next to him sat what could only have been his girlfriend, a young woman, gorgeous, olive-skinned and black-haired, probably Italian too, wearing a thin shift of a dress that attracted a lot of stares from the men. "I'm going to let my dad give his speech in Italian because he's more comfortable with it," he continued, "and I'll paraphrase in English."