I notice Aunty Connie is peering at the bookshelf as if appraising its contents.
Aunty Rosa sniffs. “It’s good work.” She is a very good sewer and avid quilter.
I pass the cups to the Aunties, the fragrance of coffee filling the tiny space. It makes it smell better, more familiar. I watch Aunty Connie’s shoulders relax a little. They lift the cups to their lips and blow the crema into eddies and swirls.
Aunty Connie sighs and tuts. “Running away . . . not telling your father where you are going . . .”
“It’s okay, Concetta, she is here,” Papa cajoles.
“Running away,” Aunty Connie repeats, taking a sip of her espresso. “Not something I’d imagine you would do, Francesca. More like—”
“We worried,” Aunty Rosa cuts in. “After the funeral. You should be with family, Francesca. Your blood. Family look after you.”
I glance to Papa to support me, but he’s looking down at the bed, silently agreeing with the aunties. This is Caputo lobbying: loving but persistent, a generous dose of guilt.
“I’m fine, really I am. I just need a little time.”
Aunty Connie snorts, as though I’m being ridiculous, and looks around the cabin with disapproval.
“Come home with us, darling,” Aunty Rosa coaxes.
I shake my head slowly and she looks wounded. My chest is tight and I can barely swallow. I can’t remember the last time I disobeyed the aunties. Or Papa. I can’t say what I need to—that I can’t bear to go back to our apartment. I can’t bear for Alex to be dead. I can’t bear the whisper of strange relief inside that makes me feel so dreadful. I can’t bear to be anywhere but here, where everything is green and simple.
Papa lifts his head to me. Please understand, I beg him with my eyes. If anyone can understand, it is Papa.
“Si tistuni,” Aunty Connie mumbles, meanly. Stubborn.
Vincenzo sticks his head into the cabin. “Look who I found.”
Bella steps past him. She gives me an awkward smile, then glances around, seeing the interior of the cabin for the first time. She is still wearing the clothes she was doing yoga in: leggings and an orange T-shirt.
Aunty Connie studies her. “Buongiorno, Isabella.” Her tongue serves up the syllables in Bella’s name in sweet parcels: Ee-sah-bell-ah.
“Buongiorno, Zia Connie, Zia Rosa.” Bella goes over to give them kisses.
“Nice digs,” Vincenzo says with a laugh, glancing around. He peers out the window, hands on the counter. “Could use a hot tub.”
“Francesca won’t come home,” Aunty Connie says flatly.
Bella looks at me but says nothing.
“I will, Zia,” I reply, feeling hot. The cabin seems crowded. “Just not right now.”
Vincenzo pokes at the linoleum countertop. “How old is this place? Cuscinu, it’s a hundred years old. Seriously. It’s kind of a dump.”
Everyone ignores him.
He’s a good-looking young man, Cousin Vincenzo: muscular, well-groomed, a good head of thick, dark hair. Aunty Rosa thinks he’s heaven on a stick, but he’s lazy and mischievous. He and Bella were always close growing up. Once they got caught shoplifting from the local drugstore. Vincenzo told his mother they’d meant to pay for the lipsticks, deodorants, and eye shadows they’d swiped and Aunty Rosa believed him. He’s the apple of her eye. These days he works in sales for an electronics store. He always has the latest sound system and the latest phone. He still lives at home with Aunty Rosa and Uncle Roberto, posters of glossy-lipped, long-haired girls in bikinis on the walls of his room.
“Are you eating here?” Aunty Rosa suddenly asks me, her voice accusing.
“Yes, what are you eating?” Aunty Connie demands before I can answer, lifting her chin at me.
“Papa and I brought some food,” Bella pipes up. “Didn’t we, Papa?”
Papa is looking downcast, but at this he nods.
“And there’s a neighbor, Merriem—she grows the most incredible vegetables, doesn’t she, Frankie?”
“Yes.” I’m surprised my sister seems to be sticking up for me.
“Asparagus, rhubarb, herbs—enough for a big family, Aunty Rosa. She has a vegetable garden just like yours, Aunty Connie. Well, not as good as yours, of course, but she’s a very keen gardener.” Aunty Rosa and Aunty Connie are staring at Bella now. “In fact, she invited us to dinner tonight. There’s quite an active local community out here. Merriem, Jack—”
“I don’t know if we’re going,” I interrupt.
“Merriem invited you too, Papa,” Bella says.
Aunty Rosa’s face lights up. “She invited Giuseppe?”
“How old is this woman?” Aunty Connie wants to know.
“I don’t know. Fifties maybe? She has quite a youthful disposition, don’t you think, Frankie?”
“What does that mean, youthful disposition?” Aunty Connie asks, still suspicious.
“It means she’s a cougar,” Vincenzo says with a belly laugh.
I watch the corners of Bella’s lips twitch.
Aunty Connie’s frown deepens. “What does that mean?”
“I just meant that she’s fit and healthy,” Bella explains. “She has a positive outlook on life.”
Aunty Rosa nods. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it, Connie?”
“She sounds like a flake,” Vincenzo says, shrugging.
Bella elbows him and he winces.
“I think she sounds nice,” Aunty Rosa says hopefully.
Papa’s looking around at us all, till his eyes fall to me. “What is this, Frankie? Dinner? Are we . . .?”
“No, Papa. I mean, well, maybe. . . . I hadn’t—”
Bella interrupts. “Yes, Papa, dinner. Merriem lives just down the road. I said we’d bring wine.”
“You said you’d bring wine,” I correct her.
“Right. So, we’re expected at seven. I think you’ll really like her, Papa. She’s very friendly, isn’t she, Frankie?”
“She’s very nice,” I agree.
“Well, there you are,” Aunty Rosa says buoyantly. She surveys the cabin once more, talking almost to herself. “You know, Frankie, this place could be quite cozy with a little care. Some throw cushions, good drapes.” She looks at the floor. “Carpeting.”
“Throw cushions,” Vincenzo mutters under his breath, shaking his head.
Aunty Connie passes me her empty cup. “I think that’s an overly optimistic assessment, soru. I am quite sure it is full of rats.”
“Oh, no, Aunty,” I say.
Aunty Connie gives me a withering glare. “At least Isabella is here with you. Some family. I wouldn’t feel at all comfortable otherwise. Although . . .” She fixes her glare on Bella. “Francesca, poor girl, has been through enough without your . . . antics. You need to look after her. Can you do that?”
Bella blinks and looks at the ground. Even Vincenzo is staring at her.
“I don’t need looking after,” I protest, but no one pays me any notice.
“Sì, Zia,” Bella promises softly.
“Bonu,” Aunty Connie replies.
“Good!” Aunty Rosa celebrates with a quick clap of her hands, then gets to her feet. “That settles it then. Thank you for the coffee, Francesca, it wasn’t dreadful. Giuseppe, will you drive us home before your dinner plans? I have an appointment at the salon.”
“It was a long drive out here, you know.” Aunty Connie gives me an accusatory look.
“I thought we might never get here,” Aunty Rosa agrees.
My protest dies before it even leaves my mouth, replaced by an apology. “Mi scusassi.”
Aunty Connie stands too, which is the cue for my father to join them. “We’ll go back to town and Giuseppe will come back for this dinner with what’s-her-name.”
“Merriem,” Bella says.
“Right. Miriam.”
The aunties leave the cabin and Vincenzo gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Two words: hot tub,” he whispers in my ear, then raises his eyebrows meaning
fully. “Total party pad.”
“Right. Thanks, Vinnie.”
“Anytime,” he replies, clicking his tongue.
Papa is the last to leave the cabin. He passes me the bag Aunty Rosa was carrying. “Rosa’s biscotti are in there. Your favorites.”
I take the bag; it’s heavier than it looks. Aunty Rosa makes the best nzuddi: small, round almond cookies rolled in sugar, each studded with a roasted almond and flavored with cinnamon and orange.
Papa hesitates.
“Go, Papa. I’m okay here. I’ll see you tonight.”
He waits a little longer, the others now by the car, then lowers his voice. “I know about the Gardners not wanting you here.”
I swallow. “You do?”
He nods. “Daniel Gardner called in. Poor boy, he’s having a difficult time. I haven’t told the aunties. They wouldn’t understand it. Throwing out a daughter like that.”
“Well, I’m not . . . I wasn’t . . .” My throat tightens.
“It’s not right,” he says, shaking his head. Then he seems to gather himself and pulls me into an embrace. “I will be back soon, duci.”
I nod. “I love you, Papa.”
“I love you too, darling.”
I stand in the cabin doorway, watching them all getting into the car.
Aunty Connie turns to Bella, who is leaning in the car window. “This Miriam . . . Is she Jewish?”
I see Bella restrain a smirk.
Nzuddi
“VINNIES” (ROASTED ALMOND COOKIES)
The name for these cookies comes from the nuns of Monastero di San Vicenzo in Catania who invented them. Nzuddi is derived from the diminutive for the name Vincenzo—vincinzuddu or ’nzuddu—and thus is the English equivalent of “Vinnies.” These are small and firm, not too sweet, cookies, perfect for serving with espresso.
Makes 30 to 35 cookies
7 ounces unsalted roasted almonds
1 2/3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup superfine sugar
1 tablespoon finely grated orange zest
2 eggs
Juice of 1/2 lemon
2 teaspoons baking powder
TO DECORATE:
3/4 cup superfine sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
30 to 35 unsalted roasted almonds (about 4 ounces)
PREPARATION
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper.
In a food processor chop almonds until finely ground. Sift the flour and cinnamon into a large bowl, then add the almonds, sugar, and orange zest. Mix well before turning out onto a counter and making a well in the center. Break the eggs into the well, beat lightly with a fork, then add the lemon juice and baking powder. Continue mixing all the ingredients together with a fork until thick and slightly sticky.
To decorate, combine the superfine sugar and cinnamon in a flat-bottomed bowl. Roll a teaspoon of dough into a small ball, then roll in the cinnamon sugar. Place the balls on the prepared baking sheet. Press a whole roasted almond into each ball, pressing down lightly. Repeat with remaining dough (if you run out of sugar and cinnamon simply mix up some more).
Bake until the nzuddi are light golden brown, about 15 minutes.
Allow to cool completely before serving. They will keep in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.
Chapter Nine
• • • •
In the afternoon, when Bella has left to buy wine for dinner, the mystery girl reappears. She’s standing by the Adirondack chairs, holding a brown paper bag. Her lips are pressed together, as though she’s bracing herself, but when she sees me she forces a smile.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi. Summer,” she explains awkwardly.
“Summer Harrison. I remember.”
She looks different today. She’s still wearing the hat but her hair is different, fluffy, like she just brushed it.
She pauses before holding up the bag. “I brought you this.”
I step over to her. The bag is heavier than it looks. I unroll the top and peer inside. Bread. Dark, round loaves, a sourdough freckled with something, maybe rosemary, a couple of sugared doughnuts.
“I’m going to Merriem’s tonight,” she says. “I thought I’d drop by and . . . I work at the . . . My brother owns the bakery. Flourfarm.”
I glance at her. Her cheeks are pink. She tries that smile again.
“In Edison?” I ask. I remember lines at the place Alex called “the new bakery.” We didn’t usually stop in Edison on the rare occasions we came to the cabin together. Alex didn’t like lines, and he was always in a rush to get here, to get to the ocean.
“Yeah. My brother and his wife, Ines, own it.”
“It’s supposed to be good,” I say.
“It is. Rocky found his thing, his calling. Rocky’s my brother.” She pauses. “Actually Beacon’s his name, but everyone calls him Rocky.”
“Like Beacon Rock?”
“Yeah. Um, exactly like Beacon Rock. My mom . . . I think Rocky was . . .” Summer gives a funny frown. “Conceived there. Something like that.”
We both smile.
“Not too many people know that,” she confesses.
“If I meet him I’ll just call him Rocky.”
“Thanks.”
We both look at the chairs but don’t sit in them. Summer seems to be hesitating, for what reason I don’t know.
“You didn’t need to bring me anything,” I say.
“No. I mean, I know . . . but . . .” She presses her hands into her jeans pockets. “I wanted to say . . . sorry, I guess, for the other day.”
I think back to our meeting on the path. “Sorry for . . .?”
“I was a bit strange.”
“Oh. That’s okay. I was too, probably. I’ve been strange a lot lately.”
She gives a small, grateful smile. I add, “I kept thinking that I knew you.”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“Do you want to sit down?” I offer.
“Thanks.”
We both sit, but Summer’s on the edge of her chair. A whistle comes out of the forest, interrupting us, and we both look towards it. Huia is skipping in front of her father, who raises his hand to us both.
Huia high-fives Summer. I glance between the two of them.
“School out?” I say.
“Yup!” Huia replies happily.
“Hey, Summer. You guys met?” Jack says.
I nod. “Does everyone know each other around here?”
“Yup,” Huia answers for him.
Jack laughs and adds, “I know Rocky, Summer’s brother, from paddle competitions. From before he went traveling and met Ines, that’s his wife, in Portugal. I bought his old business when he decided to open the bakery. Rocky has always helped me out.” He turns to Summer. “Merriem said you’re coming to dinner tonight too?”
Summer nods.
Huia notices the bag on my knees. “Did you bring doughnuts?” she asks Summer.
Summer nods her head at me. “For Frankie.”
Huia turns quickly and gives me a longing expression.
“Huia!” Jack says, shaking his head.
“It’s okay. There’s a lot of food in here. I think I need assistance.” I lift out a doughnut and break it in two, give one piece to Huia and one to Jack.
“Thank you,” they reply in unison.
“So much for me starving in the forest, huh?” I murmur.
Huia shakes her head. “Nope, nope, nope.” She’s got sugar all around her mouth. Jack brushes it away with his thumb.
I lift out the other doughnut and split it in half like the first.
Summer shakes her head. “Oh, no, they’re yours. I brought them for you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, holding out the half. “I can share.”
Summer stares at me and blinks. Her eyes are small and round and that odd blue-gray, like a winter sky. Her expression is strange.
Sad. I remember Jack saying “surfing in Portugal” and a memory pops into my mind. A couple coming into the café Alex and I always went to; Alex introducing them to me. The guy, Travis, I’d met before, but not the girlfriend. Her hair was shorter then, and in braids.
“Summer . . .” I say.
She accepts the half doughnut from me. “Thank you.”
“Summer and Travis.”
She lifts her head quickly.
“I remember now. I do know you. We met . . .”
She nods. “At Marmalade. Yes.”
“Sorry, I’d forgotten.”
“It’s okay,” she says softly.
“Travis surfed with Alex.”
“Yes.” She seems to wince.
“Your hair was . . .” I gesture loosely with my fingers around my head.
“Yes. And . . .” She hesitates. “Me too.”
“You . . .?”
“I surfed. With Alex. Too.”
She’s still holding the doughnut. I feel Huia’s dark eyes turn to me.
Jack wipes his daughter’s face again and takes her hand. “Let’s have a look for morels, bubba.”
“But—”
“Just a quick look. I thought I saw a patch over there.”
He leads her off towards the closest cedar. She lets go of his hand and skips over the gnarly roots.
Summer leans towards me. “I’m really sorry,” she says, in that voice I’ve grown used to hearing. Pained, sympathetic, sad. I see her now, at the funeral. Long hair under a hat, eyes pink from crying.
“You were at the funeral.”
She nods. “I should have said that I knew him . . . when I saw you the other day.”
I glance in the direction of the sea. “He loved it out there,” I mumble.
Summer looks that way too, as though we can see the water, though we can’t. “He did,” she says, her voice gentle.
I look at the doughnut in my hand. Split in half and broken, so it looks like a crescent moon. Like a C.
* * *
As the day slinks into evening I run a brush through my hair, while Bella and Papa talk outside the cabin. Papa is wearing brown pants, a pressed shirt, and leather shoes. The gold chain of the Saint Christopher medallion he always wears around his neck winks above the shirt’s top button. Bella has uncovered a dress from somewhere, probably the trunk of her scuffed-up car, which I imagine contains a whole closet in a jumbled heap. The dress is long, the fabric covered with tiny butterflies in myriad colors. She has gold hoops in her ears and is wearing lip gloss. She’s holding a bottle of prosecco. Papa carries a jute shopping bag with bottles of Italian red wine inside. From the window I watch them laughing together. It feels as though I’m watching a film.
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