Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  Sorella Agata thought for a moment before speaking. “Perhaps Luca decided to visit since I was telling the story of my family again. That is, if the bluethroat is really a sign from him.” She sounded sad, but there was also a slight glimmer in her eyes upon hearing that Claudia had seen the bird recently.

  “Perhaps, Sorella. What about your father and Cecilia? Please, don’t tell me they died as well?”

  “No. Well, when I was reunited with my mother, as far as she knew they were still alive; however, I don’t know if they are still living now. You remember my mother had told me the night I was driving her from the hospital to the convent that she had left my father?”

  Claudia nodded.

  “She and my father and Cecilia had moved to Palermo after they left Marsala. Mamma had fought bitterly with Papà as they traveled to Palermo. She wanted to return to Messina to look for me, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Their relations had already been strained, since she had not agreed with him about leaving Terme Vigliatore.” Sorella Agata shook her head before continuing. “Mamma had not given up on me, and just as Madre Carmela had told me, the jars of blood orange marmalade I found in my childhood home were her way of letting me know she still believed in me. But she couldn’t stay behind. She had Luca and, especially, little Cecilia to think of. And how would she support herself if she didn’t leave with Papà? Though she stayed with Papà for twenty years, her resentment toward him grew with each day until she decided she would leave and return to Messina in hopes of finding me.”

  “So it was true then that your father believed you had gone off with Marco and were going to bear his child?”

  Pain flashed across Sorella Agata’s face.

  “Mamma said he didn’t think I had run off willingly with Marco at first, but when he received that letter in my handwriting, he felt he couldn’t deny any longer that I wanted to be with Marco.”

  “But as you said, the handwriting was shaky since Marco had drugged you and forced you to write the letter. Didn’t he notice that?”

  “Mamma and Luca had noticed and pointed that out to Papà, but he thought they were holding on to false hope and didn’t want to think the worst about me. I think he felt that, as the patriarch of the family, he needed to be the one with a sound head on his shoulders. He needed to be the one to get them through this crisis and ensure that he could continue supporting his family. I came to this realization years ago, and I shared it with Mamma. She agreed with me, but told me she had not seen it this way when she still lived with him. Her anger and dismay over not knowing what had happened to me clouded all else. I forgive my father. I know in my heart he never stopped loving me even if he believed the worst about me and felt I had let the family down.”

  Sorella Agata spoke the last line very quietly. She placed the bowl of Taralli on the night table next to Claudia’s bed and then clasped her hands in her lap. Her gaze rested on her hands.

  “So when did your mother find the courage to leave your father?”

  “It was only five years before she and I were reunited. She had some money to tide her over for what she thought would be quite some time, but it only lasted a year. She was renting a room in the house of an elderly lady who needed someone to cook and clean for her. Although my mother was working for her, the old lady still expected her to pay rent, but she didn’t give her any earnings for cleaning and cooking. So when my mother could no longer pay her rent, she had no choice but to live on the streets. She was fifty-seven when she left my father, so she was fifty-eight when she found herself homeless. Can you imagine at that late stage in your life suddenly finding yourself without a roof over your head?”

  Tears filled Sorella Agata’s eyes.

  “I can’t imagine.” Claudia placed her hand over Sorella Agata’s.

  Sorella Agata sighed deeply before resuming her story.

  “Mamma was fortunate to befriend a woman older than she who made and sold silk flowers. The woman showed Mamma how to make them and agreed to share the corner where they sold them. Mamma said that woman was a saint, for if it hadn’t been for her, she would have starved and died.”

  Sorella Agata looked up at the cross above Claudia’s bed. Claudia followed her gaze.

  “Your mother gave you that cross, then?”

  “Si.”

  Sorella Agata took off her lace-up black shoes and then stood on the bed.

  “Be careful, Sorella.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

  She removed the cross from the nail it hung on and lowered herself back down to the bed.

  “See how beautiful the work on these silk roses is? Mamma made these roses and then wrapped them around this cross for me. She gave this to me about a year after she came to stay with me.”

  Claudia took a closer look, marveling at the stunning silk flowers that were entwined around the simple wooden cross. She glanced at Sorella Agata, whose thoughts seemed to be elsewhere—no doubt remembering when her mother had given her the cross. Claudia was afraid to ask her next question.

  “Your mother is no longer alive, is she?”

  “No. She died nine years ago. At least God let me have her for fifteen years after we were reunited. Oh, it was a wonderful time, Claudia. We baked side by side, and she even came with me to the women’s shelter and helped me with whatever work I did there. She felt it was her way to thank God for reuniting us. She even brought whatever food we could spare at the convent to the homeless people on the streets. Then, when she was seventy-seven years old she died. She wasn’t ill. I found her sitting in the courtyard. Her hands were wrapped around silk she was cutting to make her flowers. At first, I thought she had merely nodded off and was sleeping. But when she didn’t wake up . . . Well, then I knew Mamma had left me for good this time.”

  Claudia swallowed hard, fighting back the well of tears that were threatening to surface again. “As you said, at least you did find each other and had that time with her. She died happy.”

  “Si. But she always felt guilty. When she left Papà, it was 1975, so Cecilia was twenty-seven years old then. Mamma didn’t feel too bad about leaving her behind in Palermo, for Cecilia had married a few years before and had even had a son. Mamma had kept Cecilia’s phone number and did talk to her a few times the first year after she left Papà, when she was living with and working for that old lady. But then when she was living on the streets, she lost Cecilia’s number. My father’s number was in the same little notebook that contained my sister’s number, so she had no way of communicating with them. When she found herself on the streets, she thought several times she would return to Palermo, but she never had enough money for the train ride. But she did remember their addresses. I tried writing to Cecilia and Papà a few times, letting them know Mamma was with me and we were both safe, but I never received a response. So two months after Mamma came to stay with me at the convent, when she had fully regained her strength after her bout with pneumonia, we traveled to Palermo. We went to the house Cecilia had been living in with her family. The new occupants told us that she and her family, along with my father who had apparently moved in with Cecilia two years prior, had moved because her husband had found work in Trapani. So they had headed back west. They’d left an address with the new occupants, who had been a bit confused as to why they were doing so since the post office would forward their mail. But, of course, Mamma and I knew that was their way of letting us know where they had gone. I suppose Cecilia and Papà never gave up hope that Mamma would return to them someday . . . after she’d found me.

  “But it wasn’t to be. When I wrote to my sister, the letter was returned to me with a stamp stating that no one by Cecilia’s name lived at the address. I tried sending the letter again, but addressed it to Papà and even another time to Cecilia’s husband, but each time the letter was returned with the same stamp. All I can think is that either the address was not written down correctly, or perhaps something happened and they were not living at that address any longer. The latter re
ason seemed more plausible. After all, at this point, Mamma had been away from them for five years, going on six. And the last time she had corresponded with my sister had been four years prior. The owners had told us they had bought the house from Cecilia and her husband in 1978. So who knows what happened in the two years before my mother and I were reunited and tried to find them. Perhaps they decided to leave Trapani. There’s no way of knowing. So Mamma felt guilty that she had left them and that she would most likely never see her other daughter and grandchild again before she died. She told me she didn’t regret leaving to find me, but she couldn’t help feeling bad that she had had to leave another daughter behind in order to do so, even though Cecilia was no longer a child and had her own family.”

  “Did she also feel guilty about leaving your father?”

  “I don’t think so. She never said, and, while she admitted to me eventually that she understood my father’s motives for leaving Terme Vigliatore, I think whatever love she had once had for him had vanished.”

  Sorella Agata took a deep breath.

  “Marco’s kidnapping me changed so many people’s lives. Never in a million years would I have thought my mother would fall out of love with my father or that she would leave him. When I think about how happy they were, how happy we all were as a family together. . .” Sorella Agata’s voice trailed off as she bit her lip.

  “Life can be very cruel,” Claudia softly said.

  “Ah! We all have our crosses to bear, some more so than others, and I learned a long time ago, I cannot question God’s ways. And when I think about all I have done and still have to do to help others and continue God’s work, that is what matters.”

  Claudia was amazed by Sorella Agata’s outlook, but she also sensed this had been her way all along of coping with the injustices that life had dealt out to her and her loved ones. This was how Sorella Agata had survived—through her faith and her work in helping others.

  “So I take it you have not given up on finding your father and Cecilia someday?”

  “I have not. I continue to pray to God to let us be reunited or at least to let me know what happened to them. But I have run up against a wall. Again, as with my mother, I must await a miracle.”

  “Have you tried doing a search on the Internet? Or how about hiring a private investigator? I know it would be expensive, but they often have success with cases like these.”

  Sorella Agata smiled. “I have searched their names numerous times on the Internet, but nothing. All I found was Cecilia’s marital record. And I simply cannot justify spending the money it would take to hire a private investigator when the pastry shop and the convent need that money.”

  “But it seems like the shop does well. Surely, everyone would understand if—”

  “No, Claudia. It is self-serving. I have made my peace. If God wants me to be reunited with my sister and father, then He will find a way to do so. Besides, there is no guarantee the private investigator would be able to locate them.”

  Claudia couldn’t help wondering if perhaps another reason why Sorella Agata didn’t want to hire a private investigator was that she couldn’t handle yet another disappointment. But she also knew the nun’s priority above all else was to serve others before herself.

  “And Antonio? I suppose you never did hear from him again?”

  “Antonio came back to the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela.”

  “He did?” Claudia asked, stunned.

  “Four years ago.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on Claudia’s door.

  “Excuse me, Sorella Agata, Claudia.” Veronique greeted them with a bow of her head. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here. I wanted to change the sheets since I didn’t have a chance to do them this morning. I’ll come back later.” She turned to leave, but Sorella Agata called out to her.

  “No, it is all right, my child. Claudia and I can continue talking in the courtyard. I know it’s a bit chilly outside tonight, but it’s not too cold to take a stroll as long as we wear sweaters.”

  Sorella Agata stood up, leaving Claudia no choice but to follow her. She found it strange that Sorella Agata hadn’t asked her whether she minded continuing their talk outside. Usually, she was very courteous, asking Claudia if she was comfortable and if she could get her anything—anything usually meaning sweets of course—and if where they chose to have their interviews was fine since they alternated between the courtyard and the sitting room. In spite of what Sorella Agata had said, it was more than just a little chilly outside today. The average temperature for this time of year in Sicily was in the fifties, but for the past few days the temperature hadn’t gotten out of the forties. But Claudia didn’t object.

  Grabbing their sweaters from the coat closet downstairs, they stepped out into the brisk air. Claudia couldn’t help finding it odd that Veronique had mentioned she was going to change the sheets.

  “Does Veronique also help with the chores at the convent even though she’s an apprentice? Is that part of the bargain you have with all the apprentices at the pastry shop?”

  “No, of course not. Other than cleaning up the kitchen after they’ve learned their pastry making for the day, apprentices are not expected to help the nuns with our chores in the convent. I’ve told Veronique this many times, but she insists on helping when she isn’t apprenticing in the kitchen or shop. So I’ve given up on asking her not to. She seems content to help us, I suppose because she is grateful for all that we have taught her.”

  They walked quietly for a little while. Claudia decided to wait until Sorella Agata was ready to begin talking about Antonio instead of prompting her. She could only imagine how hard it would be for her to talk about how it had felt to see him again after so many years had passed since they’d last seen each other. Finally, Sorella Agata broke the silence.

  “I love taking walks. It helps to clear my mind.”

  Sorella Agata breathed deeply before glancing over her shoulder, almost as if to check that no one was within earshot.

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever been to the abandoned chapel, Claudia, have you?”

  “No, I’ve just walked by it. I didn’t want to go in and disturb the residents there.”

  “Actually, no one is living there now. I must’ve forgotten to mention that to you. After I opened the women’s shelter in town, I was able to move the women who were staying in the abandoned chapel.”

  “That makes sense. I should’ve thought of that.”

  “Let’s go to the chapel. It’s getting too cold to remain out here, and it will give us privacy while we talk.”

  As Claudia followed Sorella Agata to the abandoned chapel, her heart raced in anticipation. She had been dying to know what had happened to Antonio. Although Claudia knew it was not the ending she had hoped for, now that Rosalia was Sorella Agata and naturally there was no chance that their romance would have been resumed, she was still curious to hear where Antonio’s life had taken him since he had left for Paris. Had he become a renowned chef? Had he found love again? Or had he never forgotten Rosalia . . . ?

  31

  Torta Savoia

  CHOCOLATE HAZELNUT CAKE

  January 1, 2000

  Sorella Agata couldn’t believe it was not only the start of a new year, but also the beginning of a new century. Where had the time gone? In the past thirty-five years since she had started the Rifugio delle Donne Sant’ Anna, the women’s shelter in town, she had been busier than ever. And then in 1985, her duties had increased at the convent when she had assumed the role of mother superior. At sixty-five years old, Madre Carmela had been getting up there in years and was getting more tired. As Madre’s right hand in the convent and the pastry shop, it was only natural that Sorella Agata would become mother superior. But she insisted on still being called Sorella Agata, and she continued to address Madre Carmela as Madre. Sorella Agata could not think of her as anything else.

  Some days, she did not know where she found the energy to split her time betw
een the pastry shop and her work at the shelter. She often went to the shelter in the evenings, after siesta, and skipped her evening supper. Although she was tired, the work also renewed her spirit and gave her a sense of fulfillment. The work at the Rifugio delle Donne Sant’ Anna had also saved her. For it kept her mind off of the fact that she had not been able to find her family. While she was preoccupied and the ache in her heart had dimmed a bit, it had never completely faded.

  But Sorella Agata was human. While she now knew this was God’s purpose for her—helping women who had met with some horrible fate in life—she couldn’t help wondering from time to time what her life would have been like if she had followed another path. What if she had moved to Paris with Antonio and become his wife? Once these thoughts entered her head, she chastised herself. It was not for her to question the road God had placed her on. Still. When she was whipping up her pastries, she sometimes thought about Antonio, and wondered what had become of her old friend who had loved her so much. Her cheeks still burned when she remembered the look of hurt on his face on that day so long ago when she had turned him away and had been so mean to him. She prayed he had found it in his heart to forgive her, and she also prayed he did not think too badly of her. That is, if he thought of her at all after all this time.

  “Buon anno, Sorella!”

  “Elisabetta! I mean, Sorella Lucia, you scared me.”

  Sorella Agata placed her hand over her heart. From time to time, she still called her old friend Elisabetta instead of the name she had chosen once she became a nun. Sorella Lucia, as well as Teresa, also forgot from time to time and called her Rosalia. Every time this happened, they would look at each other, smile, and then act as if it hadn’t happened.

  Strangely though, Madre had never once slipped and called her Rosalia except when she was trying to make Mamma feel comfortable after she’d come to live with them at the convent. For some reason, this sometimes made Sorella Agata a little sad. She would have thought that, if anyone would have a hard time no longer calling her Rosalia, it would’ve been Madre Carmela. Whenever Sorella Agata would wonder about this, almost immediately afterward she would feel silly and even a little guilty for feeling this way. After all, why should she feel sad that Madre always remembered to call her Sorella Agata? It was who she was now, and to this day, she had never regretted for a second her vocation.