by Mary Campisi
“But you do use a machine for your noodles.”
She nodded her head and a tangle of brown-gray fell forward. Stella pushed it back with her forearm. “My mother used to make it all by hand, on a big cutting board. She’d roll the dough into huge pieces bigger than a pizza and cut each noodle with a knife. When she got older, her fingers got gnarled with arthritis and she couldn’t hold the knife. The boys, my brothers, bought her a pasta machine”—she patted the machine beside her— “this machine. And every time I use it, I think of her. That’s why I don’t make the noodles by hand, and it’s the only reason.”
“Wait until you taste these, Alex,” Gracie said from her spot on the kitchen chair. “You’ll love them.” She was resting her hands across her bulging stomach, occasionally massaging her fingers in small circles. Gracie was her mother minus thirty years or so, with the same brown hair and eyes. They shared the same smile and when they laughed, Alex had to look to see which one it was.
“We’ll cook some of these up for lunch with a little oil and garlic,” Stella said. “The kids can have butter if you want, Gracie, but I keep telling you it’s time to introduce them to oil and garlic. We had to when we were kids, and besides, it’s much healthier.”
Gracie rolled her eyes. “I know, I know.”
“Okay, so you know, but I don’t see you making it for them.”
“I’ve just gotten Rudy used to it, Mom. Not everybody wants to be Italian. You know he’s Czech and he eats all of your Czech food.”
Stella tsk-tsked, looked at Alex, who was playing with a few leftover dough crumbs. “What about you, Alex? Do you like Italian?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“Ask her if she likes Czech,” Gracie said.
“What about Czech food? Do you like that?”
Alex thought of what Nick had said. Thymus gland and cow’s stomach. “Some.”
“See?” Stella cast a triumphant look at her daughter. “She’s a good girl.”
“Come for thymus gland tonight, Alex. We’ll see how much you like it.” Gracie grinned when she saw Alex pinch her lips together in disgust.
“How often do you make pasta?” Alex asked, trying to change the subject.
“Oh, not so much anymore, probably twice a month, unless someone gets sick or asks for it. When the kids were babies, I made noodles once a week, faithfully. Nick Senior loved them”—her voice fell an octave—“especially the thin ones. He said that’s really why he married me.” She drew in a deep breath, “When he died, I made them two, three times a week. It was my therapy.” She shrugged. “It helped me feel close to him. I gave most of them away, but I just kept making them.”
“And then everybody started asking for them,” Gracie said, “and they haven’t stopped. You’d think she was a store, Alex. People call her up and ask her not only for the noodles, but for the chicken soup or sauce that goes with them. Do you believe it? And you know what? She does it! Do you believe that?”
“No, not really.” How could somebody give everything away? Why would they do that? “If you lived in the city, someone would have snatched you up a long time ago, Stella, given you a trade name like Mama Stella’s Cuisine, and marketed it in the gourmet section of the grocery store. You’d be rich.”
Stella met Alex’s gaze and gave her a slow smile filled with a wisdom that only comes with living. “I already am.”
“Yeah, well, I think what Alex is saying is that you’d have money too, Mom,” Gracie said. “Not just kind words and thank yous, and ‘oh, by the way, I’ll take another pumpkin nut roll,’ but cash. Dinero.”
“You girls.” Stella shook her head. “One day you’ll understand.”
“I know, I know, ‘give and you shall receive’ and all that.” Gracie stood up and yawned.
“Gracie, speaking of giving, why don’t you and Alex drop a bag off at Nick and Michael’s after lunch?”
Nick. Alex stared at the crumbs in front of her, tried to steady her breathing. In and out, in and out, just breathe. She’d been waiting for one of them to mention his name all morning, half hoping, half dreading that he would show up here in his mother’s kitchen, explain why he’d kissed her, then said he was sorry, too. What had he meant? Was he sorry he’d kissed her? Sorry he felt the same way she did? Sorry for what? The kiss? What? She’d spent hours lying on Tracy’s pink ruffled comforter, playing and replaying those five seconds in the dark, when life stood still and nothing existed but the feel of Nick, his lips, his tongue, his hands.
And then the other question, the one that had her tossing and turning the second half of the night. Was she sorry he kissed her? Well, was she? The honest truth, no twisting allowed, was yes… and no.
“I’m not very happy with either one of my brothers right now,” Gracie said, grabbing a large pot from the bottom cupboard. “They both promised they’d stop in Clarkton at the flea market and look for an old cradle. You know, the kind with the base that’s suspended in the air. I even sketched it out for them.” She lifted the pot, put it on the stove. “Last week.” She carried the pot to the sink, turned on the spigot. “I haven’t heard a word about it, not a peep.”
“You know they’ve both been very busy.”
“Yeah, well, see if I make them brownies anytime soon.”
“Now Gracie—”
“And don’t you go making them any either, especially not the ones with the double fudge. Busy or not, I’m their sister, their only sister. They could have found an hour in the last seven days to check it out.”
Stella sighed, “Alex, see what having siblings does to a grown woman? It makes her behave like a child sometimes.”
Gracie ignored her mother and turned to Alex. “Respect and a little consideration, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Maybe they’re planning a big surprise for you,” Stella said. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask so many questions or you’ll ruin it.”
“But I need it now so Rudy can strip it and get it refinished before the baby comes. You know, seven weeks is right around the corner, and what if I’m early, like I was with Cecily? Then what?”
“Then you relax and Rudy will set up the crib in the attic. Now hush before you spoil everything.”
A huge smile spread over Gracie’s face, a mixture of pure joy and anticipation. “They got it already, didn’t they?”
Stella kept her eyes on the pasta board in front of her. “I’m not saying anything else.” She picked up a knife and started scraping dried dough from the wooden board.
“They did, didn’t they, Mom?” Gracie’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“Gracie Ann, if you don’t stop pestering me right now, I’m going to tell your brothers, and then see if you get anything!”
Gracie laughed, rushed over to her mother—as fast as a seven-month’s-pregnant woman could—and hugged her. “Thanks, Mom. I won’t say a word. Promise. And Alex and I will take the noodles and I’ll make both of them a batch of brownies tonight.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Stella said, “you just remember that.”
Alex watched the interaction between mother and daughter, her chest tightening with a pain she hadn’t felt since she was in the eighth grade and the students put on a commemorative play to honor their mothers. Afterward, there was a reception with lemonade, and chocolate chip cookies baked in Home Economics. The mothers sat in folding chairs and drank from plastic cups. Each of the students wrote a note to their mothers, thanking them for being so caring and generous with their time and their love. Alex wrote a note, too, filled with wonderful, sappy words, all for Aunt Helen; I love you so much, you are such a wonderful person, thank you for coming into my life. And more than anything she wanted them to be true, wanted to feel the love, the gratitude that flowed from those words, wanted Aunt Helen to be so moved that she’d pull Alex into her arms, mindless of the wrinkles it would put in the linen of her Chanel suit, and hold her tight, sobbing with joy and love. Yes, Alex, yes I love you, child. I’
ve always loved you. And now, now I’m going to show you.
Alex waited for those words with the innocence of one who believed that wishing hard enough could make the impossible come true. She remembered Aunt Helen’s face with her smooth, perfect makeup as she scanned the note. Thank you, Alex. That’s very nice of you, she’d said in the same tone she used when she told the gardener to clip a little more off the privet. And then she laid the note down, leaned over, and whispered in Alex’s ear, Can you believe they’re using plastic glasses? And where are the table linens? You’d think they’d take a little more pride in presentation. Alex knew then, as the pain gripped her chest, tore her hope apart, that Aunt Helen would never love her the way a mother loved a daughter.
Mothers were women like Stella Androvich.
“Alex, do you know what time Nick will be by?” Stella was at the sink, rinsing lettuce for lunch.
“No. I have no idea.” The thought of seeing him again made her suck in a deep breath. What would she do when she saw him? Should she pretend nothing happened? Could she pretend?
Stella looked over her shoulder, met Alex’s eyes. “Oh. I was just wondering. You and Nick looked awful cozy last night.”
“We were just talking.” It came out in a rush, the words all jumbled together. Had Stella seen Nick kiss her?
“Sure. I know. Talking.” She turned back to the sink. “Just talking.”
***
She loved to watch him.
The way he moved, the absent gesture when he rubbed his jaw, his smile, the left side tilting up a fraction higher than the right, and his eyes, darker than bittersweet chocolate… He’d been up a good part of the night, called in during the early morning hours when Chuck Lubovich was rushed into the hospital, possible stroke. There was a dark shadow along his face and jaw, evidence that the electric razor he kept at the office couldn’t compete with the razor he used at home. The tiny lines on the sides of his eyes and mouth were more pronounced today, etched in. He’d changed into one of the clean shirts he kept in his office, a blue-and-white-pinstripe, same jeans. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back of the leather chair.
She’d been waiting to talk to him for four days, waiting for just the right time to ask why he’d invited her to his uncle’s birthday party and then disappeared with another woman. Of course, she’d saved face, slipped away before anyone even saw her, except Michael. So, why had Nick left with her? He couldn’t possibly know her and she couldn’t know him, not really. Did this woman, this Alex Chamberlain, know that Nick only ate the insides of éclairs? That he kept a stash of caramel corn in his bottom left drawer, in the back behind the Nutri-Grain bars? And that he hummed You’ve Lost That Loving Feelin’ when he thought he was alone? Or that he’d shaved his head last year when Jenny Sanalucci started chemo and lost all her hair?
Did Alex Chamberlain know any of this? But more than anything, did she know, have even a speck of an idea how much Elise Pentani loved him?
“Elise.”
It was Nick. She loved when he spoke her name, longed to hear him whisper it in a soft caress. Someday… She picked up the day’s schedule. “Yes?”
“When’s my last patient?” His eyes were still closed, head tilted back.
She scanned the sheet in her hand. “Four-fifteen. Mr. O’Shaunessy. Possible kidney stones.”
“Okay. Call me when he gets here. I’m just going to rest my eyes.”
“How’s Mr. Lubovich doing?”
“I think he’ll be okay. Looks like a midbrain stroke and I guess if you have to have one that would be the best choice. Edna’s the one I’m really worried about, crying and screaming. The poor man was more upset about her than he was about the stroke.” He paused, rubbed his eyes. “Thank God Alex was with her.”
Alex? “You mean the woman reporter?”
“Yeah, I guess you could call her that. She’s staying with Chuck and Edna. She’s the one who called 911.”
“Oh.”
“Got Edna calmed down, took her to the chapel to pray, then home to bed.”
“Where was Tracy? Didn’t anybody call her?” Edna’s daughter should be taking care of her mother; they didn’t need an outsider to share their grief.
He blew out a long breath. “Edna said she and Ted went to Niagara Falls for a few days.”
“They must be speaking to each other this week.”
“I guess.” Nick swung his chair around, opened his eyes. “Say, Elise, Alex Chamberlain said she tried to call me a few days ago, three or four times, but I never got the messages.”
“Oh.” She had called, four times to be exact, but Nick had been with patients, and then, well, then Elise had decided if the woman really wanted to talk with him, she’d find a way, which obviously she did, and if not, then maybe Alex Chamberlain would just go away. “Yes, she did call, but it was busy and—”
He waved a hand in the air. “I understand, don’t worry about it. I told her it wasn’t like you to forget messages but we’d been very busy so it probably got pushed aside.”
Elise attempted a half laugh. “It has been crazy.” Her voice dipped. “I’m sorry.”
Nick smiled, his left upper lip rising a bit higher than his right. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Nick? About the other night, the party?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry you couldn’t make it. I was there until around ten o’clock or so and then I left.”
I know, Michael told me. “I got tied up with my dad, getting ready for Gloria’s communion party. Two hundred rolls and five dozen cupcakes, frosted and delivered.”
“That’s okay. No big deal.”
That’s what you think. It was a big deal, Nick, a very big deal. “Maybe… maybe you can invite me another time?”
“Sure. There’s always some kind of Androvich get together.”
He ran a hand through his hair, thick, with just a hint of wave, perfect for a woman to run her hands through… She swallowed. “Sounds great.” But it would sound better if you and I could get together, alone, without fifty of your closest relatives.
“I’m sorry you didn’t see Michael.”
That got her attention. Her smile faltered, faded. Had that little skunk squealed on her? “Why…why do you say that?” She should have known better than to trust him, should have known that he didn’t know anything about honor, or trust. Damn, but she’d been a fool.
Nick shrugged. “No reason. I just thought maybe the two of you might enjoy each other’s company.”
“Michael and I?” She laughed. Michael hadn’t betrayed her. It was worse, much worse. The man she was in love with was trying to fix her up with his brother. That was so bizarre, so ludicrous, it was funny.
“I happen to think you’d make a great couple. Have you ever thought about it?”
“No. Never.”
“Michael just needs somebody to care about him, who’ll make a commitment and won’t run out when things get tough. You wouldn’t do that, Elise. You’d hang in there, you’d make it work.”
You’re right, I would. So why won’t you give me a chance? Let me show you that I care, that I can commit, that I can and do love you. “Nick—”
“I know he can be a bear and he’s having a tough time right now. Hell, I want to strangle him myself half the time. But if he had a good woman beside him, he’d straighten up, quit the bars, stay home.”
“Nick—”
“Just think about it, okay?”
“I really don’t—”
The office door opened, cutting off the rest of what she was about to say. Elise turned, expecting to see Mr. O’Shaunessy for his four-fifteen appointment. She did not expect to see Michael Androvich standing there, in jeans and a T-shirt, bronzed and grimy from the woods, Androvich Lumber ball cap pulled low over his head. His two children, Kevin and Sara, trailed behind, with Sara clutching his left pant leg.
“Elise.” His lips curved up in what might have been taken for a smile had she not heard the mockery
in his voice. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No. Nick and I were just finishing.”
“Michael? Is that you?”
“Uncle Nick, Uncle Nick!” Kevin and Sara broke loose and ran into Nick’s office.
“Hey, kiddos!” He scooped them up in his arms. “How are my two favorite rugrats?”
Sara wound her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek. “Scratchy.”
Kevin rubbed his fingers over Nick’s cheek. “Double scratchy.”
Nick laughed, let them down and pointed to the candy jar filled with Jolly Ranchers on his desk. “One.”
Elise watched him as he held the jar open. He needed more children—two or three—she could give them to him…
Michael leaned against the doorway watching her, his eyes hidden under the bill of that stupid baseball cap he always wore. She wondered what his face looked like these days since she never saw more than cheekbones, nose, jaw, and a tangled mass of longish hair curling down his neck and around his ears. “I got the cradle.”
“Great,” Nick said. “Will you”—he paused, went on—“have time to refinish it?”
Elise knew why he’d paused, knew what it meant. Michael had nothing but time, but he wasted it in Cody’s bar or God-knew-wherever-else he disappeared to, probably some woman’s bed. There’d been talk, a lot of it, about a year ago that he’d taken up with Trudy, the bartender at Cody’s. Did he wear his Androvich Lumber cap when he was in bed with her? Oh, God, what was she thinking! Elise pushed the thought of a naked Michael Androvich as far out of her consciousness as she could get it.
“It’s done,” Michael answered, a hint of challenge in his voice.
They were talking, they were being civil, that was good; not like it used to be, before, but at least it was better. There was a time when Nick and Michael were inseparable. She remembered seeing them as a young girl, dark heads bent toward each other, talking, whispering, laughing. And then it all changed, because of her, because of Caroline, because one brother married her and another brother still loved her.
“Thanks.” Nick nodded, crossed his arms. “I appreciate it.”