“Are you happy with it?” Ian asked, looking around the room.
“It’s even better than I imagined. You realized my vision and them some,” she said. “We did this.” She nodded and took his arm.
“Yes, we did.”
“Ahem,” Mark had steered Lexi over to them.
“We all did,” Juliette amended with a smile.
“Absolutely,” Ian agreed, and they clinked their glasses together.
The evening gave way to multiple toasts, compliments on the food, and at last a final farewell with wishes for a fantastic opening in the morning. Before she turned the lights out behind her, she took one last look around and grinned. She could hardly believe it was truly happening after all this time, all the plans, the dreams.
Juliette was up by five a.m. after a short and restless night’s sleep. She managed to get in her morning run before showering and heading to Gusto. She had to get rid of some of her nervous energy. Her hair was up in a twist, she had a half apron on, and was putting pastries under the glass when the three employees scheduled to work that morning made their way in one-by-one. She unlocked the door, propped one side open and turned the sign around for the very first time at seven thirty. And then they all waited.
The minutes ticked by. Juliette went into the office to pretend to work because she couldn’t stand to wait in desperation up front. And then it happened. She could hear a voice inside ordering something. She tried to focus on sending an email to Christine with her ear cocked to the side to help her hear the order. And then she recognized the voice. It wasn’t a regular customer. It was her Dad. She smiled and got up from her desk.
“Hey you.”
“Hey yourself.”
“Am I your first customer?”
“The honor is yours,” she said, as Cheryl, who worked behind the counter, passed him a slice of breakfast frittata and then expertly turned the knobs on the espresso maker to make her dad’s latte.
Before she could say another word, two women wearing yoga clothes with rolled-up yoga mats slung over their shoulders came in and ordered tea.
“It smells so good in here,” one of them commented. “We walk by here almost every morning and we’ve been watching the progress. It looks terrific!”
“Thanks! Welcome.” They took their tea to one of the tables by the window and Juliette’s heart did a leap in her chest. She spontaneously brought over a plate of tiny marzipan cakes she’d made.
“Here, try these,” she said. “They’re nice with tea. Let me know how you like them. I thought it would be fun to experiment on my favorite customers and you two are already on the list.”
The morning passed by quickly with more customers than she could have hoped for with only a few lulls here and there. They filled huge baskets with foccacia, sourdough, and pugliese bread for sandwiches and they prepped the line with all the fixings for lunch. A huge black chalkboard hung behind the counter, filled with every possible sandwich concoction and salad item that one could dream of. She’d had an art student from the local college do all the lettering in colorful chalk and she loved the results.
She had created matching order forms with boxes to check off with a place for a name, so when the lunch rush came (and please God, she prayed, let it come), customers could move through the line, place their order, pay, and then hang out until their order was up. Daily specials of soup, salad and pasta were on a separate board, and of course, dessert items were placed conspicuously by the cash register.
Juliette was behind the counter making sandwiches when a familiar order came in. Before she saw the name, she knew whom the sandwich was for. It was Ian’s favorite from the days when she was testing combinations on both Ian and Mark: foccacia bread with black olive tapenade, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, roasted red peppers, gem lettuce and roasted turkey. She turned around and there he was.
“Any chance you can join me?”
Juliette looked at the short line and the efficiency with which her assistants were working and decided she could sneak away for a few minutes.
“I’d love to,” she smiled. “Grab a table and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
“So far so good,” he said when Juliette got to the table. Ian looked around and saw that more than half the tables were full, with more people taking their food to go.
“Yeah, I’m trying not to get too excited, but it’s busier than I even hoped. Everyone says there’s a honeymoon period, but still,” she paused. “And my first cooking class starts tomorrow. It’s more than three quarters full.”
“I was wondering about that, actually. Any chance I could score a spot in the group? Now that I’m not going to be here on a daily basis with the perk of being your guinea pig, I’m going to have to learn to cook a few things myself. I’ve been spoiled and I can’t stand going back to eating boxed fettuccini and frozen food from Trader Joe’s.”
Juliette smiled. “Of course you can join the group. In fact, I would love to have you there.”
“Great. Then it’s a date.”
She peeked at the line, which was growing, and got up to go.
“Hey,” she said, “looks like I’m needed behind the counter, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” she smiled. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
The next evening’s cooking class began with introductions. It reminded her of the first cooking class in Lucca and the adrenaline rush of having to introduce herself in Italian. It felt so long ago. Roman occasionally sent sweet or witty texts to keep in touch. She was sometimes tempted to pop a note back with some flirty intercontinental text banter but she held herself in check and instead responded with something nice and chatty, but reserved. It had taken months to get over him and she didn’t want to allow herself to be vulnerable to more heartbreak.
She recently received a report from Odessa that Roman had been seen having a heated argument with his girlfriend in the central piazza. She had to admit to a slight sense of pleasure at hearing that tidbit of news but tried not to be petty. It had been a wonderful chapter of her life even if it had ended badly.
As the class progressed, she was pleased because the group was a fun and interesting hodgepodge of pupils. By the end of the evening, she felt it had been a success in spite of a mishap or two. She supposed the kinks would soon be worked out. The prosciutto pinwheels in puff pastry they made to go with the salt-encrusted shrimp with roasted red pepper sauce had been a hit. They came out of the oven golden brown and fragrant. When they bit into them they were the perfect combination of flaky, salty, and tangy. Her students were proud, and Juliette was excited and energized by their enthusiasm.
Ian had been game to take on any task she delegated to him. The switch in their roles was fun. She found herself glancing at him throughout the evening. More often then not he would feel her gaze, meet it, and smile.
At the end of class, the group sat on the stools around the worktable to peel the crispy shrimp and dip them in the pepper sauce. Juliette poured each of them a glass of chilled Viognier to accompany the food. To end the class, she poured espresso and set out individual-sized tiramisus as a sweet to finish off the flavors. She sat down with them and dipped a spoon into her own dessert.
“Mmmmm,” she moaned at the taste of the creamy and spongy concoction that was one of her favorites. “Remember,” she told the class, “you should love what you cook because it’s just as much effort to cook bad food as it is good food.”
Ian lingered to help Juliette clean up, after the rest of the class headed home. She soaped the wine glasses, dipped them into a coldwater rinse, and then handed them to Ian to dry.
The conversation started out about cooking and the classes she had taken in the past, but gradually shifted onto the subject of her class in Lucca and Roman.
“Do you still miss him?” Ian asked, glancing at Juliette while he dried the glasses she passed to him.
“Funny you should ask, because I was just thinking about him tonight when we were all introducing ourselves. It reminde
d me of my first class there. But, no, I don’t miss him in the sense that I’m pining away for him or anything. How about you, do you miss your ex fiancée?”
“God no, I got over her a long time ago. Now when she does enter my mind I’m just happy I dodged a bullet. I would never cheat and I expect loyalty in return.”
“I feel the same way. That’s how it should be.”
Ian had been working beside her, looking at the glass he was drying rather than at her. When he was done, he set it down and turned to her.
“Well, it looks like we’re done, so I guess I’ll let you get home.”
“I’ll let you out,” Juliette nodded towards the entrance to the café that had long since been locked up.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she said, leaning against the door frame. “It was great to have you in my class,” she paused, an idea occurring to her. “Hey, if you want to come every week, I’ll let you in for free if you stay and help me do the dishes afterwards.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but consider it a deal,” he looked into her eyes for a lingering moment. “I’ll see you next week,” he said, “if not sooner. I’m addicted to your coffee, so I might have to stop by on my way to work.”
“I think I could stand that. I’ll even make it a double.”
“Excellent,” he said and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you then.”
“See you then.” She gave a little wave before she locked the door behind him and sighed.
Chapter 31
CATARINA, BACK IN PERDIFUMO, ENCOUNTERING SIGNOR CARLUCCI, AND TRYING TO LURE HER PARENTS TO CALIFORNIA
Catarina squeezed Franco’s hand.
“I’m almost afraid to see them,” she said. “I’m worried they will have aged and gotten frail.”
“They may have, my darling. I’m trying to remember how long it’s been since we visited.”
“Let’s see,” she said. She had taken to thinking about time in relation to how many boys she had. “We brought Mateo, who was four, and Carlo—but he was just a baby. I think we conceived Dante while we were there,” she added, and smiled mischievously at Franco.
“I think you’re right,” he wrapped his arm around her neck and kissed her cheek.
“I’m sure they’re exhausted,” he said, thinking again about her parents.
“I know we were.”
“And we were young when we went through immigration. Think about them.” A picture of her mother’s sturdy-but-aging body flashed through Catarina’s mind along with the memory of herself when she entered the country years before. It seemed so long ago now. She was thirty-four now and had been in the United States as long as she had lived in Italy.
It had been many years since she first saw Napa, resolving to coax her parents into coming to California. Finally she had. The war had raged on and finally ended. As soon as she and Franco could, they had taken a ship back to Italy to help her parents, sisters, and brothers-in-law to get the vineyard and orchard back in order. The vines were wretchedly overgrown and the olive trees were in desperate need of pruning. The kitchen garden had to be planted from scratch.
Franco and Catarina were no longer used to that type of work and each night they felt every single one of their muscles as they drifted off to sleep in Catarina’s old room. But for Catarina it had been good to be back with her family where she was needed.
She was surprised at how poverty-stricken the village seemed. Had it been like that when she was growing up? She couldn’t remember anymore. To her, it had simply been home.
The act of waiting in line at the well each day to draw water was almost intolerable to her after simply turning the faucet on and watching the water pour forth at their apartment in San Francisco. Everything in this rural part of southern Italy took much more effort.
Having the chance to see Maria Nina and her other old friends was joyous. She invited everyone over for a picnic in the orchard and it felt almost like old times. Most of all she enjoyed showing off her husband and sons. She was proud of her family.
She was especially happy to have them by her side when she encountered Signor Carlucci walking up the street while she strolled with Franco, Mateo, and Carlo to the market on an errand for her mother.
“Catarina Pensebene,” he had said as they walked by. “I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere.” He had the same lecherous look on his face that she remembered and it gave her a chill to think about what had passed between them so many years before.
She was surprised by his appearance. Her mother had included the news in one of her letters that he had become very ill during the war. He was stooped and had the countenance of an old man, even though she estimated he must have only been fifty years old.
“Signor Carlucci,” she said with her iciest voice. “I would not have recognized you, if you hadn’t stopped me. I’m afraid time has not treated you well.” She then gave him a nod, without stopping. And, after he passed, she leaned back and spit in the road.
“Catarina!” Franco whispered, shocked. “What was that about? You were so rude.” He couldn’t imagine what would cause his good-natured wife to act so disrespectfully to anyone.
“I worked for his family before I left Italy. He was terrible to me. I was the maid. He tried to rape me,” she whispered over her son’s heads. She had never spoken of what had happened to anyone except her mother.
“What?” Franco stopped and took her arm protectively. His face darkened.
“Don’t worry. I bashed his nose in and ran,” Catarina said, still proud of protecting herself.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“The only person I ever told was my mother. After he attacked me I quit working for them. It was around the same time your marriage proposal came, and I left.”
“I have half a mind to bash his nose in again, for good measure.”
Catarina squeezed her husband’s arm. “He’s not worth it,” she told him, smiling at her husband and tousling her sons’ hair.
Throughout their visit, Catarina and Franco talked to her parents about Napa and how much the area reminded them of Perdifumo, and as the end of their visit drew near, they finally admitted to trying to lure them to move there.
“We bought some land there,” Franco said in an offhand manner while they were drinking a small degistivo after dinner. “But we don’t have anyone in mind yet to tend it. We can only get up on the weekends.”
“The soil is so rich, Babbo,” Catarina chimed in. “If only you could see it.”
“We plan to build a little house there,” Franco continued. “A place where the boys can run and play in the fresh air. They need to get out of the city sometimes and get a sense of living like this,” he spread his arms wide to indicate the countryside where the Pensebene home was.
“If only you could come,” Catarina slipped in. “Mama, you would love it there. And we’ll put in running water. That’s when there are pipes that go right to the house. Can you imagine? Franco had to teach me how to use them when I first arrived.”
“Running water? I don’t understand,” her mother asked.
“It pours out of the faucet. It’s like having a full pitcher available all the time and all you have to do is tilt it and water pours out.”
“Humph,” she smiled. “Such wonders.”
“Do you think maybe you would consider coming?” Catarina asked her parents.
“It’s so far for a visit,” answered Babbo.
“Maybe you could come and live there,” Catarina raised her eyebrows, tentatively asking the question.
“This is my home. How could I leave the land where my son is buried?” Her eyes searched her daughter’s, looking for understanding.
“Mama, no matter where you are, Mateo will be with you, because he’s in your heart. And you could help me care for little Mateo,” she put her hand on her son’s head and mussed up his brown curls, “and Carlo.”
“Maybe a fresh start would do us good, Celestina,” Cat
arina’s father took baby Carlo, kissing his cheek and handing him to his wife.
“Let’s think on it,” she said. “We’ll think on it, ok?”
“Grazie, Mama, Babbo,” Catarina said. “Ti amo. I just want you with us.”
They talked about every aspect while Catarina and Franco were still there. There were no definite decisions made, but they were at least hopeful that Emiliano and Celestina were softening to the idea by the time Catarina and Franco returned to San Francisco.
It took almost another year of letters in order to finally convince her parents to leave Italy for California, and then many more months of visa clearances and sponsorship commitments before they booked passage on a ship.
In the meantime, Catarina and Franco added Dante to the family, but he was too young to make the trip to New York to meet Catarina’s parents. Instead he, along with his older brothers, stayed with Isabella and Vittorio.
The train trip to New York was a second honeymoon for them.
“More like a first honeymoon,” Franco corrected when Catarina said as much.
“True, it was before we got married. Oh, mio Dio, Franco. I was so young. Just a girl. But when I think back, I wasn’t frightened.”
“You seemed older than your years to me.”
“And now we’ve been together for such a long time. I hope you’re not tired of me.”
“Never,” he said and then nudged her as he caught sight of Emiliano and Celestina coming through the doors and walking towards them.
“Mama! Babbo!” Catarina yelled and waved, running to them, and she kept her arms around them until they squirmed free like children.
Franco caught up with them, took the baggage out of their hands, and gave them each a welcoming hug. “Come,” he said, leading them to the ferry. “Let’s get you a meal and some sleep. We have a room waiting at the hotel where Catarina and I first stayed when she arrived. You’ll like it.”
“And you can have a bath, Mama. Wait until you soak in the tub that fills itself up. I’ll show you how it works.”
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