Alma tugged at the silk scarf holding her hair up and chuckled as she opened another box of clothes. "Just like his father–my brother. When he finds a woman who can cook and thinks he's handsome, he'll end up married whether he likes her or not."
Mama had finished straightening out invisible creases from Francesca's perfectly made bed and was putting the expertly folded linens away. She and Alma had Francesca sitting on her hands a lot of the day as they insisted they could handle this and that. Before they'd arrived at 7:30 am, Francesca had fallen apart twice. Her face must have been puffy because their faces had shown sympathy the moment she opened the door.
"I think that's why this one's dad and I got married," she commented wryly.
Francesca perked up her ears as she dropped off boxes labeled 'Bathroom.'
"Why? Because you could cook?" Alma shouted across the house.
"And I thought he was good looking. I fed his stomach and his ego. Is there much more a man needs? As for me, I guess I got swept up in the showered affection. Gifts are the way to my heart, it seems."
Though she laughed heartily, it rang hollow. It wasn't true. She'd been attempting to move on, and bio-dad happened to be nearby at the right time.
Cecelia sat cross-legged on the floor in the brand new pale green and cream kitchen complete with walnut cabinets. Francesca adored it, having personally designed it down to the pull knobs on the drawers.
At the moment, she couldn't go in. Since she'd come back to Italy, she and Cecelia hadn't spoken.
When Cecelia had knocked on the door around 8:30 am, Francesca's stomach flipped. She'd worn overalls, and her hair had been pulled back in a messy bun. All she'd said was, "Hey." Her beautiful thick accent had almost blurred the word into just a sound. They'd both stood there and shuffled their feet uncomfortably for thirty-seconds before their mothers had loudly torn open boxes to cut the tension. Cecelia had only blushed, while Francesca had been filled with too many emotions to know what to do with herself.
"Where to?" Cecelia had asked.
That'd put Francesca into unpacking mode. It had calmed her blood which seemed to be on the fritz–cold, hot; it couldn't decide.
"Kitchen. There are a ton of stacked boxes. I went through and wrote what should go where on each. They may not be perfect, so stick stuff wherever if you can't tell what I meant or if it was mislabeled. I just want the boxes out and my stuff somewhere. Organizing is next week's priority."
"Perfect." The sunlight that was pouring in from Francesca's myriad of windows had made Cecelia's eyes sparkle. It had made Francesca curse.
"Thanks for helping out." Francesca had retreated to her room to putz–another solid teenage moment. She'd almost moaned at her lack of maturity.
By seven, they were all moving so slowly, Francesca knew they should call it quits. The furniture was situated where it belonged, give or take a few inches. Stacked, broken down boxes leaned against the foyer door; they stood nearly as tall as Francesca.
Only eight unopened boxes remained by the bookcases: Sloane's books. No one was allowed to open those boxes but her.
When Cecelia had finished unpacking the kitchen, she'd tried.
"What are you doing?" Francesca's voice had come out harsh and ragged.
"Just moving to the living room. This box says, 'Third Shelf'. I figured I'd put it on one of the bookcases third shelf so I can toss out the box. I could come help you organize later this week if–"
"Don't open that box," she'd said sternly.
"Oh. Alright. I'm sorry, I just–"
"It doesn't matter."
Cecelia had stood and somewhat calmly decided to visit the closed bookstore below. Half an hour later, she'd come back with red eyes. She hadn't mentioned it again, and no one had made any more attempts to touch the boxes either.
"Dinner?" Tony asked when Francesca started to thank everyone and tell them she could take it from there.
"My treat!" How could Francesca have forgotten that?
"You haven't already called somewhere?" Tony's helper chastised in jest. "I guess I could–"
Cecelia swiveled to her brother. "Get on it, Tony."
Alma made a sound of agreement, and Mama added, "Have you been to the backyard patio? Giorgia said it's yours too. Sometimes she uses it during her lunch breaks, but otherwise."
Francesca felt giddy despite her worn out muscles. What'd made her so tired? What had she done today other than manage and grieve? Oh, right. "You forgot to mention the second patio!"
"Tony, go pick up some food. Augusto, would you grab us a few bottles of red? Cecelia, since you know where everything is at the moment, grab us some plates, utensils, and glasses. A pitcher too, if she has one. We have some celebrating to do."
Finally! She learned the man's name: Augusto. "I do–have a pitcher that is," Francesca said with amusement at Alma's perk-up and take-charge moment.
"Good. Then Augusto, grab a few glasses of water." She'd labeled him the fetching guy–poor thing.
"Francesca, Maria, and I will set up the patio, and see you all in half an hour." Alma stood and slipped off her headscarf. A layer of fuzz hovered over her usually smooth hair as if an electrical outlet zapped her. "Alright?"
As if they all just shouted "break," they dispersed.
Before Francesca knew it, the patio was transformed: leaves and brush swept away and lights woven into the vine-covered metal fence. They arranged a small patio set similar to Mama's and plopped into the cushions.
"We can go shopping for a longer table with comfortable chairs this week if you'd like?" Mama suggested. "Then you can be added in the host rotation." It wasn't a question as to if, more so when.
"Next week, please. Then the week after I'll be on rotation. I need a little more time."
"Of course, Essie."
"No rush, Francesca," Alma said, adjusting her top. "We've given Cecelia all the time in the world. And she's still not in the rotation, is she? She always says she's 'just now getting settled' and her job is 'very demanding.'"
As if to save the conversation from whatever direction it was headed in, the men strode up with the best distraction for any Italian: food and wine.
After a lengthy dinner, a little too much wine, and twenty minutes of goodbyes, the clock read 10:23 pm.
"I'm going to put up the flag before I go to bed. Keep an eye out tonight!" Mama said as she and Alma took turns hugging Francesca.
"Yes, Mama. I will, if you do it early. I'm exhausted."
"I love you, Essie."
"And I love you, Mama."
With another quick hug, she and Alma left, the men not far behind. Augusto insisted on downing any unfinished wine. "I'm not driving, eh?"
Cecelia hung back. As if they hadn't been around each other all day, she whispered, "Hey." That word.
"Oh, hey. Nice to see you again," Francesca joked. She began stacking the dishes up in the plastic recycling tub she'd brought to carry them back up.
"Let me help you."
Francesca paused. "No, it's okay. You've done plenty already. What's up?"
"Well, if we're cutting straight to it, I wanted to talk to you about Rome."
"Okay."
"Okay? We haven't spoken since, and then my mother tells me I am going to help you move into your new home. I didn't know you were moving here. Or that you'd left."
Since when did she have to tell Cecelia anything?
Cecelia must have read Francesca's thoughts. "I'm sorry." She grabbed the small metal trashcan and scraped dishes clean while she spoke. "This is going all wrong. I wanted to ask you if you ever wanted to see me again? I know this is a crazy thing you're going through. No, that's not true; I don't know–I can't even imagine. Mama told me a few weeks ago was a year. I'm so, so–" She'd put the plate down and touched Francesca's arm.
"Don't."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what the right thing is to do here. I don't think there is any."
For what? Francesca scraped the last dish Cecelia
had stopped doing and put it in the tub. Two glasses and one take-out box stood in between Francesca going upstairs.
"I miss you. We were getting along really well."
"We were," Francesca agreed. To keep herself from looking at Cecelia, she tied the garbage bag closed and walked it to the dumpster on the other side of the building.
Cecelia trailed after her. "So, could we go for coffee sometime?" The sound of stupid skinny heels punctuated every word. "I'm not expecting anything. I know what almost happened in Rome may never happen again."
Metal hinges squeaked as Francesca tossed the trash in. "I'm j–I need a little time to settle in. But when I'm a little more settled, sure; we can get coffee." Before Cecelia could say anything else, Francesca added, "As friends."
"On your time," Cecelia added as they made their way back to the patio.
"That sounds good. Thank you for understanding."
"Why couldn't I open that box?"
Francesca winced at the question and the click of Cecelia's heels. "I don't want to talk about that."
"Was it something I can't see?"
Francesca picked up the tub of dishes and clenched it tightly. "Cecelia, they are my things. If I don't want you opening the box, you don't get to." It seemed harsh, but she still barely knew this woman. A week and a half of friendship doesn't warrant inquiries, despite the connection they may or may not have. "I'm sure there is plenty in your home that I can't see. We're barely friends. I hate to say it like that, but…"
"They were Sloane's things weren't they?"
After the last few weeks, hearing Cecelia say Sloane's name was a trigger. Eyes burning and body flashing, Francesca snapped. "Please go. I'll let you know when I'm up to talking."
"I hit a nerve. I'm sorry. I thought I ha–"
Francesca imagined Cecelia reaching out again, looking devastated by her faux pas. Instead of turning to confirm her thoughts, Francesca shuffled away with her tub of dishes and swimming eyes. Clicks began to follow her. But by the time Francesca finished struggling with the door to Orbel's Books, the sound of inappropriate shoes had faded.
28
Sloane
She'd melded with a woman in a cloud of perfume and an obtrusive hat. The man sitting to her left had called her Gianna when he'd told her he thought they'd sung the last hymn. His dry, chapped fingers rubbed her palm–a familiar sensation, though false.
Gianna concentrated on the sermon; Sloane concentrated on not being expelled from Gianna.
Thirteen minutes and some odd seconds later to be almost exact, Gianna stood, but Sloane couldn't figure out how to follow.
Even after she'd been pushed out, Gianna's thoughts still lingered. She'd moved from the sermon to her husband and their marital bed. For a distinguished appearing woman, Gianna had dirty thoughts. Sloane had let those lead to one of her own sexual memories. A naked Francesca slid two fingers under Sloane's panties.
“Are you alright?” Molly asked.
Sloane calmed her heartbeat. "Just trying to get to Francesca."
"Your face went slack and your eyes glassy like the children in my village did before they had fits. I was unaware that could happen in The Veil, though I will not pretend to know everything." Molly shrugged, and her ill-fitting dress slid off of her right shoulder.
"Hm," Sloane responded. Switching to a memory that wouldn't have her craving skin, Sloane honed in on the dimples that appeared when Francesca struggled not to laugh. She didn't think it would be strong enough, but it's what came up first.
A blink later, Sloane stood beside a sweating, swollen-eyed Francesca in her ugly pajamas with a knot of hair twisted up high on her head. With her knees curled under her, she sat with a box cutter in one hand. The other rested on an unopened box labeled, ‘Shelf Four’.
Molly jumped onto the velvet three-person couch and made herself as solid as possible without being seen. If Francesca had been looking, she'd have screamed as the center cushion indented with Molly's force. Sloane's jealousy flared at her ability to do it without a thought. "She has done an incredible job on this home."
Ignoring Molly, Sloane sidled up next to Francesca. Her hand shook as the knife slid through the tape like scissors through wrapping paper.
As Francesca popped open the box, she sighed. "Okay, Sloane, I hope I'm doing this right," she muttered.
"You are," Sloane whispered into Francesca's ear.
Her lips brushed pearl stud earrings that had been part of a scavenger hunt for their fifth year anniversary. Five clues, five presents, each better than the last, leading up to Sloane in a sweeping grey silk dress and the ballroom dance lessons she'd been mentioning since they'd been on their third date.
Francesca snapped her head and stared right at Sloane. Her breath caught. "Sloa–" Bursting into laughter, she grabbed a stack of books and stood. "A year later and you're still talking to her. Shouldn't you stop at some point?" she said aloud. "No, and you know, I don't want to. Hear that, love? I'm going to talk to you forever."
Francesca had always had a habit of talking to herself. The first time Sloane heard it, she had been coming home, and Francesca was in the shower. Heart sinking, she expected to find another woman in the bathroom with her. To her surprise, Francesca had her hands in her sudsy hair, chatting away in a normal tone of voice.
"Oh!" Her eyes were so wide, Sloane thought they'd fall out. "I… I'll be out in a few minutes."
They never did talk about it. It just became something Sloane expected. Talking to Sloane after she'd gone had been a logical step–almost a rational explanation for it.
Francesca mouthed each title as she placed them in order. "Damnit. Did you put Greyson by The Cirque because it's the same author, or were they organized by genre? Wait, it could have been alphabetized. How did you make our house so beautiful without any help? The bookshelves were so put together." Francesca's shoulders hunched and began to shake. "Maybe I should just make it look pretty. I don't read like you do." She sighed and corrected herself quietly, "Did." After a long pause, Francesca jumped up and ran to the bedroom. "Of course! I took pictures."
"This is a serious matter to her," Molly commented. "Who knew stacking books in a library could be so stressful."
"Me." Sloane sat in her reading chair out of normalcy, not out of need. "I spent days working on it–the one in San Francisco, that is. I put the books up to get them off the floor one day, then every day after that I tinkered. I'm glad she took pictures."
Francesca stomped back into the living room shaking her head. "I knew it seemed wrong! So much for putting things in the right boxes–thanks, guys. Okay." She rolled up the sleeves of her wrinkled, stained button-up shirt. "One book at a time it is then."
Molly reminded Sloane she was in fact just a child as she whined, "We aren't going to sit here the entire time, are we?"
"You can do what you want," Sloane said. "I want to be here. Besides, I have some thinking to do. I don't know why I couldn't stand up with Gianna."
Molly said something, but Sloane's mind had already moved on to the first time she'd seen Francesca dressed-down in the ugly pajamas. They'd been together for a few months and had decided to have a lazy Saturday where they were going to paint each other's bodies, something Sloane had seen in The Pillow Book. When she'd come over, Francesca had had messy hair, worn the same makeup she'd worn from her girl's night out with friends the night before, and the soon-to-be-infamous ugly pajamas. Sloane's dream of painting words on each other had flown out the window. They'd painted little wooden trays which were purely decorative, as they wouldn't hold but one small plate. She wondered if her poorly designed beach scene had made it to Montepulciano.
29
Francesca
The first knock on Francesca's door involved a sweaty teenager with an odor she worried may linger on her doorstep holding apology daisies.
"I'm sorry I pushed,
Cecelia"
The flowers brightened Francesca's mood a little. Maybe they could be frien
ds. She'd spent the last two days putting books where they belong, sobbing, and ranting at Sloane; they'd helped her claw her way out of her darkness.
She went straight into the kitchen and looked for her vase covered in book pages to put them in. The rushing water from the sink refreshed her. It had been so long since anyone had given her flowers. They looked beautiful in the center of the living room with streams of colored light bouncing off the petals.
Francesca stared at the daisies as she called Cecelia. After four rings, it went to voicemail. "Hey! It's Cecelia Loreti, and I can't come to the phone right now. If you need me, leave me a message. If you want me, leave me a message. If you're bothering me, go away. Don't forget to leave your number, so I can call you back if I want to. Here comes the beep."
Smiling hard, Francesca didn't hang up in time, and the beep forced her to leave a message. "Hi, Cecelia, it's Francesca. I just called to say thank you so much for the daisies! It was so thoughtful of you. There was no need to apologize, but you are completely forgiven. How about we go for some dessert next week? Call me when you can, and we'll plan a day. Talk soon."
Her heart had been pounding so hard that after she hung up, she had to look down to make sure it wasn't visible. She'd just made a coffee date with Cecelia–no, not a date. A coffee… meeting?
Mama enjoyed dressing up a little for dinner, even mother-daughter dinners. For her mother, Francesca wore one of her striped maxi dresses. They'd become a favorite of hers as she didn't have to shave her legs, she looked taller, and she could dress them up or down.
They were the perfect dresses. Sloane would have mocked her mercilessly for how many colors she'd bought when Mama took her shopping. She wore no makeup and left her hair down. Mama should be pleased; Francesca looked semi-dressy.
The drive to her mother's place took about six minutes, which had Francesca arriving ten minutes early. She'd anticipated traffic, despite their homes being in view of each other.
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