"I'm going to find a parking space, freshen my makeup, and oh, I have to grab something from the store there–" She pointed to a row of little shops across the way. "So you go on in and get us a table. They've Americanized their system a bit, so it shouldn't be hard to figure out."
"I wouldn't mind going with you. Or we could do it after; you just said you were starving."
"Yes, but I want to have a nice dinner tonight, so I'm going to make sure we have what we need." Leave it to Mama to already be planning dinner at second-lunch.
Francesca nodded and headed towards the unassuming square building. She and Sloane would have called it 'shambly' because there were several places right outside of San Fran that had the same feel. It needed safer stairs, unbroken windows, a paint job, un-cracked walls, and a roof that wouldn't blow away with a strong wind. But it had charm in a don't-look-too-hard kind of way.
The sign right inside of the door told her to seat herself and order at the counter. She dropped her purse off at a ripped, half-flattened booth close to the counter to hold the table. The kid behind the register devoured her with his eyes as though she were his last meal. He gave her a wink and something free after she ordered a lasagne. Though he probably thought that was a big deal, Francesca wasn't listening. She'd tuned in to a vaguely familiar voice behind her.
"Hey!"
Francesca didn't turn, though. Who did she know in Italy? Mama, that's who. But when the voice said her name, she put it together and tried not to run away.
Over her shoulder, Francesca said, "Cecelia, hi."
"How are you doing? Crazy seeing you here! I come here all the time on my lunch break."
Mama! How could do this she right after she'd cried about Sloane? Oh, she'd hear it. She'd hear all about it. Keeping her rage in check, because it certainly wasn't Cecelia's fault her mother dropped her in an awkward situation, Francesca nodded.
"So, how are you?" Cecelia probed again.
She searched for positivity. "I'm okay." Wasn't terrible. "You said work? What do you do?" And that should do it for her social obligations. She would listen, nod, and make eye contact twice. Once she grabbed her food, Cecelia would leave.
"I work on my family's vineyard. Depending on the day, I do anything from bookkeeping to grape stomping."
That explained the pulled back messy bun, no makeup, vaguely frumpy loose jeans, and tank top. All of which should have made her less attractive–should have.
"Cool."
"Order number 52," the teenage boy with acne called loudly. High school probably sucked for him.
"That's me. It was good seeing you."
"Wait, Francesca?"
Cecelia had a look in her eyes Francesca had seen so many times before. To her horror, a scenario involving lips popped into her head.
"Yeah?" Francesca acted about as casual as a kid in puberty.
"Order 52!" It seemed the kid was angry she didn't return his affections. Or maybe he just wanted her food off the counter. "Sorry, I've got to grab it before he tosses it in the trash."
"Of course, I can wait."
Damn it.
Francesca stepped from the silverware station and grabbed the red plastic tray. Melted cheese seemed to have expanded from her large plate to the tray itself. There was so much of it. She wanted to pick it up and shove it in her face; forks be damned! But Cecelia shuffled her feet steps away, waiting.
"So… I was wondering if, maybe you might want to go with me–"
The lasagne smelled so good' Francesca concentrated on that.
Quickly, Cecelia added, "I mean, if you aren't busy soon, would you like to go out with me sometime? Soon, I mean. Uh, maybe tomorrow, even? Or next week?" she added when Francesca blinked at her plate of meat and cheese.
The restaurant became a supermarket, and Cecelia became Sloane. Francesca may have even smiled at the memory. But the plastic freezer burn scented cardboard brightly lit store was a shack of a restaurant that smelled like tomato and parmesan. "No. I mean–I'm just not ready to date." Francesca would not cry. She would not cry. Okay, she may cry a little.
"I didn't mean to upset you!" Cecelia rushed her way.
"Order 57."
Cecelia's head tilted ever so slightly to see her number; she looked pained.
Impatient, the pimply teen waited less time than before. "Order 57!" He didn't need to be so antsy. There weren't but six people in the entire restaurant.
"You go get that. I'm going to sit. It was nice seeing you."
Francesca almost apologized for tearing up, but she and Sloane had made a pact they would work on only apologizing when they should. Both had the tendency to say sorry to couches if they bumped into them. It had been a problem.
With a tray of salad and a small bowl of pasta salad, Cecelia saddled up to the booth before Francesca had her first bite. Steam had already gone, and the food grew colder with every awkward second.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry. Whatever it was, a bad breakup, recent, whatever, I'm sorry."
"She died," Francesca whispered. The second time she used that word in one day.
Faster than most would have thought to speak, Cecelia said, "I had no idea."
"If Mama hadn't told you, how could you?"
"Do you want to talk about it? Oh God, people ask you that all the time. How about this, do you want me to go? Well, that's not a fair question either. Is it okay if I eat here? Is Mama Nuccio coming? No, that's not fair either; I should just go."
"She should be here soon," Francesca hoped aloud. "And sure, you can eat here. But I'm not up for talking, sor–" She caught herself; she wasn't sorry. If she didn't want to gush to therapists, why would she to the pretty girl across the table? Cecelia only made Francesca's world confusing.
Cecelia took the food off of the tray and started shoveling the overdressed salad in as if her life depended on it. Through a mouth of greens, she mumbled, "Sorry, haven't eaten all day."
And here Francesca had already had pancakes, bacon, and eggs, almost an entire loaf of freshly baked bread slathered in scratch-made butter, spaghetti with meat sauce, Bacio gelato, and had moved on to lasagne. Poor Cecelia.
Mama still hadn't joined them by the time they had finished their food in silence.
"Thank you for letting me sit with you. No pressure, but I'm craving these little pastries a baker down the street makes. I had planned to eat them by the well over there–it's considered a landmark of Montepulciano–because it's such a lovely day. If you want to join me, you can. We don't have to talk, just get the sweets."
She nearly said no.
Francesca had zero room for anything; her stomach already turned thanks to her second lunch. Mama had abandoned her, though, and Cecelia seemed to have mastered the art of not talking.
"Sure, thanks." She'd sounded more enthused about a pap smear before. Oh well.
They strolled a fair distance apart. Sun rays beat down on Francesca's burned, exposed shoulders. The heat and overstuffing made her drowsy, and thoughts of Sloane had her on the verge of tears. A sad afternoon nap seemed in order. She'd been up too long, done too much already.
"It's just up here," Cecelia said. "If you aren't hungry, you don't have to go in. I won't be but a minute."
"Thanks. I'd love something doughy."
"I'll get you something wrapped up," Cecelia said laughing. The squeals of unruly children nearby dared to swallow it. "Want to find us a table near the well? Maybe a space on the steps? Looks kind of busy today."
Loads of Americans looking for an escape crowded around the well. Camera flashes–unnecessary in the high sun–washed out the majestic lion statues sitting atop the structure. Francesca shifted her weight from one leg to the other on the multicolored cracked stone, mostly obscured by tourists, as she waited for an opening to squeeze her way to the front to peer inside. She imagined a deep and bellowing sound would echo back if she yelled down it.
Stubby, low steps spanned the length of the building across from th
e well. So many people huddled around the landmark, few found a reason to sit. One round child sat with a dripping waffle cone in his hand, while a woman beside him snapped photos of herself with an old digital camera. After clicking buttons for a moment, she stopped and smiled. Her smug look disappeared the moment put away her camera and looked up to the hustle and bustle.
Francesca nabbed a space a few feet away from Sticky Fingers and Narcissist. Between her bloated stomach and purse, she hoped she saved enough room; Cecelia was small.
"Over here! Cecelia!" she called when she could see the leggy Italian. She carried a large bag with a brown stamped logo on it.
Cecelia waded her way to Francesca attempting to hold eye contact the entire time; Francesca decided to turn her attention to a couple canoodling against a pillar. A moment with Sloane against bricks under a bright streetlamp slid to the forefront of her mind.
Cecelia broke Francesca's thoughts in two. "What a crowd today! I thought it looked busy, but not crazy."
"Never looks as bad from the side streets." Francesca surveyed a man tugging at his khaki shorts. "It's so much quieter on those."
Cecelia nodded and opened the bag. "You want your sweet now or later?"
Was there supposed to be a later? "Now," Francesca said.
"I got you Struffoli." Cecelia grabbed a napkin and handed her both. "I hope you enjoy them. Sticky, but worth it. The baker is from Naples."
A small breeze blew the napkin up. They both reached for it, but Francesca dropped her hand quickly. "I'm sure it's delicious, thank you." She tried not to grimace; more food would make her stomach do rollercoaster drop somersaults.
Lapsing back into silence, they ate their desserts slowly. The tiny balls of crispy dough were officially in the rotation of sweets Francesca would order after only three bites. She tried not to moan. Sloane would have known the face with or without the sound. They were in sync in that, and so many other ways.
As they ate, in as much silence as was possible with crunchy desserts, Cecelia pointed people out and commented on their outfit or their shopping bags. She had a thing for shoes and knew every store in town. Francesca wasn't sure if she would have bragged about that. To each their own. She was reaching, looking for a trait to dislike Cecelia for, but coming back with wisps of smoke.
"So, we've sat here for quite a while… Mama Nuccio has clearly abandoned you. I'm sorry." Cecelia tried to hide her smirk.
Francesca shrugged. "I can get home. I know she's planning a big dinner, so maybe it's best I stay away for a while. If I eat another bite, I may pop, as Sloane would say." Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Again. She couldn't stop herself lately.
"You can talk about her, you know." Great, another therapist moment. "Or not." Cecelia raised a hand. "I understand not wanting to talk. I went to therapy for a while after my friend died when I was a teenager. That's how they started every session. It was so annoying! All I wanted to do was not talk about it."
Francesca laughed, and it felt good. "They do that, don't they? I'm going through therapists like gallons of milk. I use them for one glass and then wonder why I bought them at all." She made a disgruntled sound. "That wasn't a great analogy."
"I got it, though." Cecelia shrugged and smiled.
"I'm glad. Mostly, I want to talk about Sloane in my own time. I want to talk about her all the time and never again. But I don't want someone to tell me it's okay. Of course, it's okay. Freedom of speech or whatever," Francesca rambled. "I just want to tell the important stories, not the big stories. You know?"
A group of high school kids ran past them. One shouted that she loved Tyler. He turned and raised her hand shouting he loved Susan back. Her heart sank. Who named their kid Susan anymore? It just seemed like a cosmic joke. Fuck the cosmos.
"Are you all right?" Cecelia asked.
Tears were streaming down Francesca's face, so she couldn't do anything but shake her head. When Cecelia reached out, Francesca pulled back.
"Sloane's name was Susan. She hated it. It took me years of trying to drag it out of her to find out why she hated it so much. Finally, after ages, she told me it was because her drug-addled mother threw out that name to the nurse with no thought at all. She'd watched a Manson documentary the night before and could pretty much only think of the name Susan Atkins. It sounds like it would be a funny anecdote at parties, but no, it couldn't be, because her mother left her." For the first time since Cecelia had given Francesca the Struffoli, Francesca turned to look at her. "I'm the only person who ever truly loved her. And I'm not sure I was enough."
Cecelia did the unthinkable. She pulled Francesca into a hug and let her cry about her dead love.
When she tired of crying in public, Francesca sat up straight. Tears and snot dripped onto her dress. She didn't bother wiping them away. Smiling through the ache, she said, "Sloane would be laughing at me right now."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I've always been a crybaby. Sloane would laugh when I finished crying to get me mad or happy or anything but sad. At first, I didn't know what to do with it, but by the third time she did it, I realized I couldn't live without it." Francesca paused and looked at Cecelia. "Thank you. I'm sorry I ruined your afternoon… and possibly your shirt."
"There's nothing to be sorry about."
The effort was appreciated.
Francesca felt slightly uncomfortable with how quickly Cecelia was willing to fit Sloane's role. She shook off that thought and told Cecelia that she should probably take off.
"Maybe we can do this again sometime?" Cecelia asked.
Francesca could only muster a nod. It wasn't a promise, but intent lived behind it.
After grabbing a taxi, Francesca headed back to her mother's house. The entire time she went through her conversation with Cecelia. She'd just shared Sloane's biggest secret without hesitation.
Was betraying Sloane all she knew how to do? That wasn't her's to tell; it was Sloane's. Now that Sloane was gone, no one should hear it ever again.
By the time Francesca had slammed the door and paid the cabby, she'd moved past self-flagellation. Anger had taken over. She set her jaw before she stomped in and readied herself.
"Going to start dinner in a few. Needs to simmer," Mama said. Her feet were up on the stacked pallets she'd made into a coffee table, a mystery novel tightly clutched in her fist.
Lines creased Francesca's face.
"That's how you're greeting me? You left me in the plaza! We were supposed to have lunch!"
"Yes. How did it go?"
"After I told you how I was feeling? After I cried about Sloane? We had a great time! We're getting married tomorrow! How do you think it went? I cried about Sloane!"
Mama jumped up and tossed her book aside.
Scurrying across the floor on socked feet, she rushed to Francesca's side. Her face held questions.
"Essie, I had no idea. I thought you could… I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought a friend would be good for you."
"A friend? That was a setup!"
"What?" Mama cocked an eyebrow.
Storming past her, Francesca bolted toward the kitchen. "As if you didn't know."
"Didn't know what?"
"Jesus Christ! Cecelia likes me, Mama."
She shrugged. "That's why I thought you'd be good friends."
"Are you kidding me? You didn't know? Really? You really didn't?" Like a balloon deflating, Francesca's anger waned.
"Oh, God!" Pale-faced, Mama hesitated before asking, "Essie, is she…?"
"Gay? Yes."
Mama began to cry. She didn't do that often. It had almost always been when she disappointed someone. "I didn't know."
Francesca crushed her in a hug, which her mother returned with such ferocity her back cracked. Since the plane, she'd needed that.
"I believe you. Still, I need to lie down. When dinner is ready, could you bring it to my room?"
"Of course, anything. I really didn't–"
"Could we not?" Fran
cesca shook her head and walked away. "It will be okay. But I need to go be by myself for a while."
Feeling like a zombie, she wanted to leave her arms outstretched, reaching for Sloane's perfume. Maybe it was an okay time to spray it. She should buy a few more bottles. It could be her new scent.
But when she finally reached her temporary room and had her hands wrapped around the tiny glass bottle, she lost her nerve. Pillows and covers called to her. She brought the perfume with her, smelling what she could through the sprayer.
Mama fussed with the room; she dusted around a sleeping Francesca.
"Can't a woman sleep in?"
A spritzer sst-ed in the bathroom. "Of course. Don't mind me; I'm just tidying up." The mirror squeaked as Mama wiped off fingerprints Francesca hadn't left.
Yawning, Francesca sat up. "Okay, I'm awake. What activities do we have today?"
"Nothing. This morning is wide open." She opened the curtain, and white light flooded the already bright room.
"And this afternoon?"
Obviously stalling, Mama grabbed a skirt from the floor. "I'll just wash this."
"Mama!"
"Okay, okay! We have dinner with the Loreti's tonight. I didn't know things were going to go poorly yesterday. You can stay home if you want."
Francesca would deal with that in a minute. "And what about this afternoon?"
"I had planned to do some gardening or go for a walk. Maybe sit on the patio and have a nice lunch and talk? Really, Essie; I wanted today to be nothing."
"Oh." The string had finally been pulled on the overhead bulb. "You thought Cecelia and I would be getting lunch or something fun and friendly."
"Well, I'll admit, it had crossed my mind. But that's before I knew; I swear!"
"Calm down. I know. I love the idea of an afternoon on the patio. I have a good book I'd love to catch up on and a day in is very needed. I haven't done this much activity in years. Sloane and I have a calmer life than this." Ribs ached. Oh no: had, not have. It all came back. "Mama, I need you to g–"
She wouldn't. And for the first time, Francesca had someone to hold her as the morning beat her like a hurricane.
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