Gina did know. She smiled despite herself.
"Christmas morning," her mother said, "he gave me that cabinet. The china cabinet. That's in the dining room. He built it himself, in the back of the store, every night for three weeks. Out of cherry. It's the most beautiful thing I own." She reached across the table and touched Gina's hand. "Sometimes a man lies because he's got something to hide, baby. And sometimes he lies because he's got something to give you, and he's no good at it, and he panics. You have to figure out which kind of man he is."
Gina looked down at her mother's hand on hers. A plain gold band, worn thin, that she had never once taken off.
"How did you know?" she said. "Which kind Pop was?"
"I didn't," said Rosemary. "Not for sure. Not until Christmas morning. You don't ever know for sure, Regina. That's the whole thing. You just decide to hold on until you find out." She stood up and took the ziti out of the oven. "Eat this. You're thin. You look like him."
"Like Pop?"
"Like the tax attorney," said her mother, and went home.
*