"You came early! That's so sweet of you! Come on into the kitchen."
"Uh… So, how's my spaghetti coming along?"
When Mama had called the day before to invite her to dinner, she'd actually asked her what she wanted. Shocking–she had a say for once! Mama said she'd make other things too. "So that we have extras."
Francesca didn't know why they needed extras but assumed Mama didn't want spaghetti. She loved her mother.
Mama looked her up and down. "You look so beautiful and natural." Code: You aren't wearing makeup, and your clothes are plain.
"Thank you. My natural beauty comes from my mother." Francesca pretended not to notice the odd barb.
Eyebrows raised at her naked freckles, Mama asked, "Would you like some blush? Or lipstick perhaps?"
"Why would I need that, Mama? Am I hard to look at? We’ve have had many meals without me all painted." Trying to ignore the hurt, Francesca reminded herself that her mother often phrased things oddly, but meant them in entirely different–and benign–ways. She hoped that was one of them.
"Of course you aren't! I just thought when we turned the lights down you may pale a bit. I don't want anyone to think you're sick."
"Who's anyone?" A sinking feeling filled Francesca's stomach. Not at a mother-daughter dinner, it seemed.
"The Loreti's, Lia and Alonzo, Benito and Stefano Portera, and Benito's daughter, Gemma–you haven't met her yet. She lives just a few houses down. Maybe you two could be friends."
"What the hell are you talking about? I thought you and I were having dinner! Just you and me! You said, 'I haven't seen you in days.'"
"Well, I haven't. It just so happens I was having a dinner party tonight." Mama stirred the spaghetti sauce instead of looking at Francesca.
"Then why didn't you have me over yesterday, or I don't know, tell me about the people? You asked me what I wanted. Oh, Mama," Francesca said, as her smarts kicked in. "Cecelia is coming, isn't she?" Boiling water mirrored her bubbling irritation.
"Yes. But it's not a set-up; I have to invite her, and I worried you wouldn't come. I would have understood, of course. But…"
"I completely understand, I really do. You should have just told me." Francesca tore off a piece of un-toasted focaccia and stuffed it in her cheek. Through chewing, she told Mama, "She sent me flowers yesterday. They were to say sorry. I told her we'd see each other next week. But Mama, we are adults. I need you to talk to me as if you remember I'm an adult or this won't work."
"What won't work?" Her voice went high-pitched and panicky. "You living here? Oh, I'm so sorry, Essie! I should have. I was worried you wouldn't come. And I want you two to get used to being around each other. I shouldn't have done it this way. If you want to go, I understand. No one knows you're coming."
Francesca's legs twitched, but her head shook. Didn't she just say she was an adult? "No, I'm staying. What can I help with?"
Mama's eyes lit up. "Stir the fettuccine."
After the table had downed ten bottles of wine, Mama turned on swing music. Benito asked Alma to dance. Her eyes twinkled as she agreed. Creases Francesca hadn't seen before appeared around her mouth.
Dancing on the lawn, they resembled the ever-rotating plastic couple in music boxes. Her ankle-length red and orange dress turned into a teacup of a circle, as they whirled in unison.
Tony announced, "They can't be the only ones, can they?" He stood and held his hand out to Gemma. "Would you care to dance?"
Stained purple lips slurred the words, "Of course." Slightly younger than Tony, she probably shouldn't have matched him glass for glass.
Tony pulled her to a space a few steps away from his mother and Benito. Gemma's unbound long hair flew in her face with the first spin. She didn't bother pushing it back. Instead, she giggled and wiggled closer to Tony. He'd be tasting her shampoo in no time.
As if they were in a movie prom, Stefano set his wine glass down and stood quickly. He grinned at Mama and outstretched his hand. "Honor me?" he asked with a sultry voice.
Mama's face flushed. "That sounds nice, Stefano." She laced her fingers into his as he led her towards the other couples.
Alonzo followed by pulling his lovely Lia up and spinning her to the impromptu dance floor of Mama's yard. Lia laughed and threw her head onto his shoulder the moment they began dancing.
So familiar, they fell in step without a second of clumsiness.
The moon, the stars, and the glittering lights shifted the atmosphere to that of a wedding: jovial, loving, and filled with promise. Francesca knew she'd made the right choice when she moved to Montepulciano. Endless pasta and dinner parties–how had she'd lived without them? With a fleeting pang, she wished Sloane were there. Cecelia tore Francesca from her thoughts. "Don't worry."
"About what?" Swept up in the beauty of the laughter and dance in front of her, she had little worry.
"I wasn't going to ask you."
For some reason, that hurt Francesca, even though she probably would have panicked and said no. "Okay," she said.
"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." She paused. "But in the spirit of the night, I changed my mind. Would you care to dance?"
A smile and blush had Francesca feeling heat where she hadn't in a while. Her lips attempted to form the word no. Instead, she nodded. "Thank you for asking."
What?
Cecelia took the lead once they started dancing, and Francesca felt safe. Acutely aware of her hands, Francesca concentrated on a blurred light above the patio door flickering in and out of her sight as they twirled. The small of her back lit up, and they moved closer. Only for a moment, Francesca caught fire. It could have been the wine, the party, even the feel of Cecelia's warm body against hers, but she felt that one day she may be okay again.
Mama's face was a mask of questions as she met Francesca's eyes. Guilt exploded in her, but she didn't stop dancing. For once, Francesca wouldn't deny herself a small bit of temporary happiness. Instead, she leaned into it and tried to embrace the feeling of Cecelia's breath on her neck and how good it felt. Tears of disappointment in herself begged to fall but didn't.
She'd unpack the pain and self-loathing at home.
Francesca had no idea what she wanted to do. Starting over meant she could pick a new career. Or hell, she could work a mediocre job as if she were in high school again. A few of those had been fun. No matter how she sliced it, though, she had no clue where to start: help wanted signs, the internet, her mother?
She chose signs. Her list of to-dos including exploring the neighborhood anyway.
Hoping her Italian job search would be as easy as it was in the movies, Francesca wandered the streets looking for the sign that would lead her to the perfect job. The search had begun at 8 am and had gone on for two solid hours.
Seven blocks later, and she'd ended up with zero job prospects, three bags full of goodies, and a desperate need for a shower; hitting the pavement made her sweaty. Luckily, all of the busyness kept her from dwelling on the spot on her back that still tingled from Cecelia's hand.
With a lack of direction, Francesca did what any disheartened girl would do; she called her mother. "I need a job." Wait, wasn't she a woman? Too late to go back now.
"I know, Essie," Mama said. A clanging sound loudly covered the rest of her words.
"Everything okay over there?"
"Yes, just doing dishes. I didn't do them last night as I had intended."
Francesca said, "I understand. It was a great evening." Inside she gasped. Mama hadn't done the dishes; was she sick?
"It was. You and Cecelia looked like you were having fun," she said. "Go slow, Essie. Hearts are fickle." And here Francesca thought Mama might not bring that up.
"So, about the job…"
In the background, a man's voice called out. "My love, come back to bed. The dishes can wait."
What? One in the afternoon and a man–Francesca put the pieces together. Stefano Portera had stayed over. That explained the dishes; her mothe
r rarely left dishes.
Francesca remembered an evening when extended family had kept them up until past midnight telling stories about when they were children. Though they were nothing-stories–the kind you share to pass the time in an airport if your layover is five hours–they told them as if they could end up at a storytelling festival. Francesca had only been fourteen, so Mama had been pissed. She was rarely allowed to stay up past eleven and only for special occasions.
Neither of them found that particularly special. After the family had finally run out of even the most boring stories, despite the fact it had been one-thirty in the morning, Mama had cleaned.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were on the phone. I'll be waiting for you," he said.
Even if she couldn't have heard Mama's blush in her words–which she most certainly could–she'd have known it was there. "Uh, uh, I'm sorry, Essie. I've got to… I've, I'm so… Oh dear."
"Mama?" Francesca started. "Please take a breath. So Stefano stayed over? I'm happy for you. It sounds like maybe this isn't the first time, which is even better. Since he said he'll wait, though, let me ask you a quick question before you go back to your love bubble." Francesca wished she could've winked at her mother then. She couldn't help but joke with Mama.
Mama's voice still shook. "Of course." Water cut off from the faucet followed by chair legs scraping.
Good, Francesca had her attention.
"I need a job, but my neighborhood doesn't have any signs that say they need help. Isn't that an anywhere-but-America thing? I saw it on TV." She was only half-joking.
"Oh, Essie," Mama laughed.
"I want something I'll enjoy. I don't mind if doesn't pay well, because two beautiful women bought me a house. I'm going to try and pay them back one day, though. But for now, I don't have rent. My car is paid off. I've got utilities, insurances, food, tv, my two credit cards, and fun. I'm sure I'm missing one or two things, but still. I don't need too much."
"You have credit card debt?" Mama asked in horror.
Francesca sighed. "Doesn't everyone?"
"No, I most certainly do not."
"I mean everyone who isn't rich, obviously."
"I'll pay it off; then you'll have one less thing. We'll talk about that tomorrow at dinner. How about you come over? We'll have a quiet evening, just you and me?"
"That's a hard no on you paying off my debt. I am an adult, you know. I can do some things for myself." Francesca sighed internally wondering if mentioning her credit cards had just earned her Emily Gilmore Sunday night dinners with wine and loud Italians. "But I'd love to come to dinner tomorrow night. Now, about that job?"
Cecelia chewed the last bite of her panini. Through a chipmunk cheek, she said, "I'm glad you called."
"I said I would."
"I didn't expect you to so soon. I was thinking a week or two, not a few days."
"So was I," Francesca admitted. Espresso steamed in front of her. "But after last night…"
She sipped her too-hot drink and let the words live between them.
In any other situation, they'd probably be on be their first date after the previous night's burgundy-mouthed spontaneity. Few moments held that kind of magic.
Francesca recalled a moment captured in a photograph stuffed in a drawer; with it out of constant view, she cried less. A few friends had come to help her and Sloane clean and re-stain the mini-deck behind their house slash bookstore. They'd made an adult play-date of it, complete with popsicles and a water hose. The popsicles had turned out great, all boozy and purple-flavored.
Harry, their long-time friend, had intended on soaking everyone with a high powered gush of warm water before they'd got down to work. When he'd faced the hose at them and twisted the knob, no rushing stream sprayed them; instead, a cascade of liquid sprinkles had misted over them.
Rachael had screamed at Harry to stand still as she'd run to grab the camera.
"Kiss her!" Rachael had shouted, pointing spastically at Sloane. Neither had known what was happening, but Sloane had laid one on Francesca.
At some point, the water had stopped raining on them, and Rachael had said, "I got it, guys." But they'd kissed on.
After Francesca had pulled away, she'd turned to Rachael. "What was that all about, anyhow?"
"You won't believe me until you see it! On a cloudy day, you two create a rainbow. Pure magic, I think. Only you guys could make that happen." She'd shaken her head and laughed; a hint of envy had lived behind it. Sloane and Francesca had often been the cause of that.
They'd run over to see the pictures and gasped. A rainbow, as if made only for them, hovered right above their heads. Sloane rarely framed photos, but she'd printed that one out the next day.
Francesca began thinking of more magical moments with Sloane: bright blue pool water and clumsy fingers, brick walls and bright lights, secret nibbles during phone calls, nights where she'd taught Sloane Italian.
Cecelia made a noise in agreement, and Francesca was in the present again. Cecelia held back a smile. Francesca wondered if she had any magic stories, but wouldn't ask. That may lead to a conversation Francesca wasn't ready to have. That may lead to leaning again. Francesca would love to get to know Cecelia, but not if they leaned.
"So, what did you want to do today?" Cecelia asked.
Francesca shrugged. Meeting her at lunch felt safe, but she hadn't thought there would be more than that.
Cecelia had an idea before Francesca's shoulders settled. "How about we head over to Lia's?"
"Mmm, sweets. I thought that was like an hour away?”
“Not even close–if you don’t drive like our mothers. And besides, it is for sweets," Cecelia pointed out slyly.
Damn. She had a point.
Thirty minutes–not the fifty it took Mama–flew by with Cecelia. Listening to a story about the first time she'd picked grapes for the winery helped distract Francesca from the cold plastic-scented air blowing directly on her strappy lime sandals and Cecelia's lavender perfume.
"Sorry, that must have been boring. I just, I'm always trying to think of stories to tell you, but I always come up empty. You've lived this crazy life, and I've just been here."
Francesca nearly laughed. "In Italy."
"Yes, but not traveling much." Cecelia plugged in a little pine-scented air freshener. Could there be any more smells?
"Except for Europe."
"Yes, but not many other places."
"Cecelia, you underestimate your life, I think." Francesca felt dizzy.
"Maybe so." Cecelia went quiet. It seemed as though she was contemplating Francesca's off-handed comment on a deeper level than she'd meant it. Before she could shake herself out of her introspection, Lia's was in sight.
Cecelia had barely parked before Francesca escaped for a desperate attempt at relief.
"Francesca, look!" Cecelia shouted.
"What?"
"The sign in Lia's window–did you know she needed help?" She grabbed her hand and squeezed. Francesca's heart soared.
"No, did you?"
Cecelia shook her head, still holding Francesca's hand. "Not at all! What a happy accident!"
Taking a small step towards the building, Francesca broke Cecelia's grip. She didn't seem to notice in her excitement.
"Do you think you'd work here?"
“For free sweets, of course. But it’s a bit of a drive, and what does Lia even need? It's not as if I know how to make bread. If I did, I'd be 300 pounds, at least. No joke."
Francesca pictured a life where she kneaded dough, wore a linen apron and a tea towel over her shoulder, had flour on her nose, the whole deal. Sloane slid her arms around her from behind and tried to knead with her. She nearly sighed at how easily the image came.
With Sloane alive, anything seemed possible.
Without, Francesca saw herself alone with wet dough, wearing her ugly pajamas in a disaster of a kitchen.
Cecelia chuckled. "I'll ask!"
"I think I can do that."
“I really don’t mind,” Cecelia said.
She had fallen into girlfriend mode too quickly, despite her lack of being appointed the role. Cecelia needed to slow to new-friend mode.
Lia peeked through the large picture window filled with loaves of bread, flanked by picture boxes overflowing with colorful flowers. Stepping out, she motioned for them to come in. "Ladies! It's so good to see you both again. Come in out of the heat. How are you doing? Can I get you anything?"
"A job?" Francesca half-joked.
"You're looking?" Lia's perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. "I had no idea! I'd love some help. I can't pay much, but you can have all the free desserts you want."
What had she just said? ”So far so good."
"Let's talk business then. Have a seat." Pouty lips pursed as Lia pointed at a small bistro table set in the corner. "I'll go get the paperwork, and we can hash the details out."
"Seriously? That easy?"
Lia took a sign Francesca hadn't noticed down from the window. "Seriously." Smiling, she sauntered into the back room before coming out with a pen and a stapled packet of paper.
"I told you," Cecelia said, nudging Francesca. "I'm so proud of you."
Hearing that had Francesca's chest pounding with a nameless emotion. Sloane used to say that about small things too. No one else cared that much, probably not even Mama.
Shit.
Two days before her first shift at the bakery Francesca had a few hours of unpacking left. The still-taped boxes dared her to ignore them again. Resisting the urge to yell at the helpless cardboard, she grabbed a bottle of wine and steeled herself.
Within hours, purposefully ignored captured moments had been spread across the living room floor. Sloane's records filled the space. Only novelty lights illuminated the house: three sets of white Christmas tree lights, a restored stolen exit sign, a naked Edison bulb with twisted filament, and a set of plastic flamingos. Francesca held onto a book like a lifeline. She was too drunk to read its title, but it was Sloane's; that mattered more than the words on the pages.
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