Her problem? She hadn't been around other people for so long she was swept up in the normality of it all. Francesca decided she'd treat it as if the last three weeks had been a dream and start from the beginning.
When Mama padded into her room with a plate full of pastry and icing, Francesca knew she had to pick out a place and move sooner than later. She may have decided against the villa, but she couldn't live with Mama. Not cooking was nice, but it was time for her to work life out for herself. This time, she wouldn't be fully alone.
"Thought you might want something sweet before breakfast. You've been sleeping for a day and a half. I knew you'd need a pick-me-up if you were going to get out of bed."
"This isn't breakfast?"
Mama shook her head as she hopped up onto the foot of the bed. It barely shifted. "We are meeting Alma in an hour. You'll be meeting your realtor for some house hunting today! I know you probably don't feel up to it, but I thought–"
"No, it's great. Thank you. Anyone else going to be there?" Francesca tried to casually ask as she stuffed a large chunk of a roll into her cheek. Icing dripped onto her chin. After she'd licked it off, she wanted to wipe her sticky hands off, but Mama had forgotten a napkin, and the bathroom was a few steps too far away for her liking, so her plane-stenched jeans would have to do.
"No, Essie. I wouldn't bring her on your first day back. You and Cecelia will talk, or not, in your own time. Alma and I agree on that."
"You talked about us?" Francesca flared and squeezed the nearest pillow so tightly she wondered if it would ever poof back up.
Mama threw her hands up. "Calm down. Alma mentioned that Cecelia was upset. I said Francesca too. We just agreed–we wouldn't meddle. It's very out of our nature, you know. But given the circumstances, we are trying. So don't charge at me. Or her, for that matter. We are doing our best here. It's odd for us. Now, do you want a caffè or no?"
"I'll take wine. My head's pounding and my knee is a little swollen from the plane and drive here." Francesca's small-framed mother hopped down to leave. "Mama? Thank you. It means a lot that you aren't getting involved. I do know it's hard for you. I love you."
Pushing undone, unruly hair out of the way, Mama turned to Francesca. "I love you too, Essie. Now, grab a shower. The wine will be here for you when you're done."
The bell above the entrance tinked. Alma didn't turn; she was laughing with, presumably, the server. He wore a too-small black waist apron.
"Ah, here they are! And early, still." She tapped her oversized, yet simple leather-banded watch. "I should know by now; Maria's never late. And Francesca! It's so good to see you again." Alma stood to kiss them on both of their cheeks. "Karl, these are the Nuccio women. Beautiful, no? This is Karl, a friend of a friend. He's a transplant like you Francesca." Alma waved her arms as if he was a 'Brand New Car!' on a game show.
"Nice to meet you." Francesca flashed him a hopefully sincere smile.
Karl scratched at his crooked and flat nose. "You as well, pardon my Italian. I'm fluent, not yet. One of the sentences know I the best." He was charming. German, maybe. With so many accents around and names that could come from anywhere, Francesca couldn't tell; it felt rude to ask.
"You're doing great so far, Karl." Francesca kept her eyes on the menu she wasn't reading.
Window seats were Francesca's favorite, and Alma had procured a scuffed white metal table with odd chair choices near the open door. However, Karl was too tall for so early in the morning; looking at his face caused Francesca to stare directly into the sun.
"Thank you. I'll take order?" He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and held onto his pad of paper for dear life.
"Let's give them a minute to look at the menu," Alma spoke sweetly.
"Of course." As Karl left, Francesca began to squint. His kinky dark brown hair had blocked out more rays than she thought.
A few landscape photographs hung on the white walls, and a gargoyle angel statue sat on the counter by the cash register. Mismatched hard chairs crowded tables of all materials. It felt as if they were in a room of garage sale finds.
"So Francesca, I hear you're looking for a home. That's so exciting! Your Mama and I thought for sure you'd like the villas. Since those weren't right, we'll need more to go on." Alma shifted in her wooden spindle-backed chair.
"Of course. When's the realtor showing up?"
They laughed, their eyes flicked back and forth to each other, and a wicked smile broke across their faces.
Alma spoke first. "We're already here."
Francesca groaned and not from the dull ache the polypropylene math class-style chair caused. "If it was you two who were going to help me, why didn't you just say so?"
"Well, I thought it would be better–oh, wait! Is that Vito?" Mama stopped short and pointed at a couple on the sidewalk.
Alma shouted his name as he pushed the glass door open for the woman in a blue striped dress. A pink-faced Vito stopped, while she shuffled to the table furthest from the window; she did not introduce herself.
"Good morning, ladies. You all look beautiful. Are you having a nice breakfast?"
Mama smiled and nodded. "It's going well. Who's that with you? I thought you were–"
"She's a friend from college. She's only in town for a week, so we are out to breakfast." Beady brown eyes shifted around the room, while sweat began to dot Vito's round face.
"Ah, I see. Well, you say hi to Silvia, wouldn't you?" Alma said pointedly.
Mama's teeth showed. "Yes. Tell her it's been a while and to call us. We'd love to have dinner sometime."
He bolted away with a nod; they chose not to stay for breakfast.
"I can't believe he'd parade someone around like that. We all know they are having problems, but that's distasteful." Mama said before the door had shut. Francesca saw stripes swirl as the woman whipped around to have a listen two-seconds too late.
"Mama," Francesca refocused. "My house?"
She couldn't get swept up in a stranger's spousal drama. Her own guilt ulcer had already made a home in her stomach the moment Alma hugged her.
"Does it always have to be about you?" Mama smacked her head with her letter–in a new envelope. "Just tell us what you're looking for." It was as if Francesca had been holding them up. "Alma and I know everyone–Montepulciano is a small place–and we're going to find you the perfect place."
Francesca worried the next few hours would end in screams.
Trying to be open-minded, she said, "I want some place with emotion behind it; a place with a story to share. I got swept up in the idea of a large villa and fancy vineyard, but I don't need those things. Honestly, I couldn't take care of those things. I want a smaller place and no yard. Show me the places most people think are too weird." 'Because Sloane would be happier somewhere odd.'
"Alright. Let's eat. Then, I have a few places in mind," Alma said.
Mama nodded. "Me too. Where were you thinking?"
They spoke in code: using names and street addresses. Francesca didn't become more curious or excited. Instead, it just stressed her out.
Karl ambled back to the table. "Having what are you?" Each time he was so close.
Francesca started intently at the menu as she ordered eggs and potatoes. Karl didn't notice her lack of eye contact; good. How could she have said he was too tall for her liking?
When the food arrived, Francesca ate the eggs in two bites. They were tasteless. Whether that was the cook's fault or her depressed tastebuds didn't much matter.
"Ready to go, I see?" Mama teased.
"What can I say? You were talking about some interesting sounding places, and I'm excited," laughed The Lying Liar from Liarsville. Part of her wanted to drop the fork that was mechanically stabbing potatoes and shoving them into her fake mouth and run to the airport.
Alma smiled and waved Karl to them, handing him her card before anyone else could offer money. "I'm surprised you heard us over your fast chewing." Playful eyes sparkled.
"Are you sure you don't want to split the check?" Francesca would be getting her apartment's hefty deposit back any day, so she could afford a few breakfasts before her bank reached a dangerously low number.
"Yes, Maria got it last time."
"It's what we do," Mama said. "Once you have a nice job and settle in, maybe you can contribute. For now, put your money in a savings account. We can take care of you for a few months."
Alma nodded. "We only just stopped paying for Tony at places because the restaurant we bought him is making money."
"You both bought it?" Francesca asked, floored.
When had she and Alma become thick as thieves? Mama had talked about her, sure, but they had to trust each other a great deal to put that kind of money in one investment.
Alma popped a bite of toast into her mouth and nodded. "Strong women stick together," she said as she swallowed. "We've got three other women who pitch in sometimes. We all help the kids until they are good and making their way. It's not common everywhere, and it's not city-wide to be sure, but we have a small community. It's a good way to keep the wealth you have: invest it in your children. In my case, my money comes from the family winery and my ex-husband. What else would I spend it all on if not my children?"
"That's why, Essie, I bought the vineyard. Hopefully, the grapes will grow in this year now that I've got a good gardener." Mama took a sip of her water. "It will be a nice source of income in addition to the family money, alimony, and survivor's benefits."
"Survivor's what?"
Mama choked on air. "Nothing, I misspoke."
"Mama," Francesca warned.
Alma announced her need for a restroom–an excellent choice.
"It's from a friend from long ago," Mama said cryptically before Alma had taken two steps.
"No, not enough. People don't get survivor's benefits for being a friend. I lost Sloane, and no one's sending me money. We were much more than friends. So, what's going on?"
Mama pulled out the letter, and Francesca reared up. "Don't you dare smack me now! I asked you a question."
"And I'm answering it." Mama became so small, so little; Francesca's shoulders fell.
Karl came up to ask if they needed anything, as Alma had signed the check already.
"Thanks, we're okay. Just chatting a bit, then we'll be out of your hair."
He smiled. "No rush! Mama Loreti tips enough me for you to all day stay if you want."
"Of course she does." Francesca loved that.
A new world she entered; Mama never let her money show. They saved a lot, spent on what they needed and enough to have some wants–never all. Francesca never went without but had never been spoiled. This overt display of wealth was foreign to her.
"So, Mama. You were saying?"
"Just read the letter." Her eyes brimmed. "And I'm not crying for what you're about to read. I'm crying because Sloane kept her promise to me."
"Sloane? What does Sloane have to do with any of this? And wait, you called her Sloane."
"Read the letter; then I'll explain everything."
“Dear Mrs. Temple,”
Francesca stopped reading. "Mrs. Temple? Who's Mrs. Temple?"
"Do you want me to tell you, or…"
"No, no. I can read it."
Francesca swatted Mama with the letter. And though Francesca had wanted to do such many times as a child, it held no satisfaction. "Oh, Mama," she said after a second. "Oh, Mama!"
Francesca's face became damp. Mama let a tear drop but held back the rest.
Alma peeked her head out from the bathroom but stayed put when she saw the tears.
"I've had a complicated life, Essie. I loved a man–a soldier–named George Temple. It was the kind of love you only have once. I saw that love in you and Susan; I'm sorry, I saw that in you and Sloane.”
Francesca bit the inside of her cheek.
“George and I married very young, 16. A few months after we were married, he was called to fight in the Vietnam War. It was nearly over, so we both figured it wouldn't be that bad. Childish thoughts; foolish thoughts. 'That bad'? It was a war.” She shook her head and sighed. “The first letter I received said he was missing in action. I kept that one too, but it’s been ripped up and taped back together; I’ve tucked it away.”
Francesca thought to hold Mama’s hand, but she was fidgeting with her clean napkin.
“He was presumed dead after seven years. That letter is in a small plastic bag, shredded into bits. This letter, however, this letter came when you were three-years-old. George’s body had been found. He'd been a prisoner of war for two years.”
Francesca gasped and reached for Mama’s hand.
Mama let her hold it. “It was the catalyst for me divorcing your father, to be honest. He was no George; I'm sorry to say. But you were the best thing that had ever happened to me, so I changed our last name back to my great-grandfather's, and we moved to New Mexico."
Francesca was dumbfounded. A massive chunk of her mother's life just clicked together like a puzzle.
"I told Sloane about this six months before the accident. We were a bit tipsy on too many martinis or glasses of wine, who can remember those kinds of things? I told her what I just told you; then I asked her to let me tell you in my own time. It was a big ask, to hold a secret like this. But she did. And that touched my heart more than she could imagine. Sometimes I'd swear she was here. In some ways, I want her to be, but in others, I hope she's where she should be. Either way, I hope she knows how proud I am of her, and proud that she was my daughter-in-law. You may have never married, but in my eyes, it was all but done."
Shocked, Francesca coughed out, "Mine too."
A lump sat in her throat. She had no idea Mama had felt any of that; she hadn't expressed it when Sloane had been alive. Sloane had assured Francesca that Mama liked her, despite Francesca's fears.
As usual, Sloane had been right.
If only she had been able to tell her how she had known.
"I'm sorry I've kept this from you. In some ways it means nothing, in others, it's everything. I just haven't been able to tell you."
"I'm glad you told me. There are no words for how sorry I am that you lost your love. I see now why you understood so much when I first got here. I love you, Mama. You can tell me anything. I hate that you've been holding this in for so long. Did you tell my bio-dad?"
"I did. It was a hard conversation that brought up a lot of emotions, but we weren't happy before that." She paled a little. "Oh! You didn't need to know that; he's still your dad."
"It's okay, Mama. I'm glad I never blamed myself, though," Francesca joked, attempting to bring her mother back from her dark place. Francesca frequented that place.
Mama slid the letter back into its new envelope and playfully smacked Francesca on the hand. "Thank you. It's nice to have this out in the open."
"No more secrets? And no more smacking me with letters?"
"No more secrets," Mama agreed. "As for the letter… well, it has come in handy. I think I'll keep it around."
They stood and hugged.
Francesca's tailbone throbbed from the angle of the seat–meant to keep you alert and uncomfortable. Creases on her mother's face softened; her chair looked worse than Francesca's.
Alma appeared, clearly pleased they'd finished. "Thought I'd live in the bathroom. You two all set to visit some potential homes?"
"Ready." Mama nodded, impressed by her lack of pressing. She grabbed her purse–letter zipped up tight and glanced at Francesca.
Filled with genuine optimism, Francesca agreed. "Yes, I think I am."
The three stepped out into the warmth, and Mama seemed lighter. "Alright, Alma, what do you think? Glass Staircase first?"
"Oh yes," Alma said, as she swept her hair into an elegant bun. She used two bobby pins to hold it together. "I think that place is great. It can get a bit warm, but there are a fair number of windows, all made by the owner, which help it a lot. Let's take my car."
Thr
ough the window, Francesca watched a lamp-worker in a black apron spin a ball of molten glass into a crystal unicorn.
Treasures from the compact glass blowing studio glittered, and rainbows danced on the stones of the street.
Mama gently guided Francesca towards the side of the shop. "Over here."
Francesca's shoulders hunched in disappointment; she wished they could stay to watch longer. Still, she moved towards a small alleyway. Odors of sweat, beeswax, and fire accosted her when she opened the door that led to the loft above the Glass Staircase. She breathed through her nose; she couldn't imagine tasting the smell. Visitors and tour guides' chatter fell away as the door clicked behind them. The blissful silence nearly made up for the smell.
Alma jogged in front of her to unlock the door and open a window. She turned to Francesca. "It's not a huge space, but it's unique."
"It could be something." Mama echoed.
Paint half of the cement wall, hang a few pictures from the plaster ones, and they were right. It would be bright and strange.
The hum of the kindling furnace below her would be the soundtrack to her life, just as the dripping water had been in San Francisco. Built-in cabinets wrapped around a modest kitchen. With a coat of white and turquoise with a few knobs here and there…
Odd twists of pulled glass with naked bulbs hanging from them decorated the vaulted, water splotched ceiling. Sloane would have swooned. Francesca smiled despite herself, just thinking of Sloane nestled by the open window reading a book.
The bathroom was adorable. Having a claw foot tub would have had Sloane salivating, as she had always wanted to have a long soak with a shower cap in an old bathtub. Francesca never understood the appeal.
"So?" Mama asked.
There went Francesca's off-the-rails train of thought; it was for the best.
"I like it. The heat isn't great, though." She would have to have quite a few fans in the small home. With only one-half wall separating the bedroom from the main room, it shouldn't be that hot–even in the summer. Her potential soundtrack may be the deal-breaker. "It's definitely a contender. I see the potential, but I still want to see what else there is."
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