The Meryl Streep Movie Club

by Mia March

The mention of Charlie made Kat worry for June, who hadn’t gotten out of bed that morning. When Kat had come home from Oliver’s last night, she’d found June and Isabel sitting on June’s bed, June’s eyes red-rimmed from crying. Isabel had shown Kat the obituary. This morning, Kat had heard June crying, but she lay facing the wall and wouldn’t turn around. When Kat heard Charlie’s door open and his usual morning greeting—“Ahoy, mateys!”—she’d told June she’d see Charlie to school this morning and would tell him that his mom had a headache and would be fine in a few hours. Isabel had called Books Brothers to report in that June wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in that day. When Kat had come back from dropping off Charlie at school, June was still in bed, still facing the wall.

  Kat had lain next to her and rubbed her back, offered her her favorite cinnamon-chip, white-chocolate scone that Kat had baked early that morning, but June could barely even shake her head.

  “I just need some time alone,” June had said, and so Kat had reported in to Isabel, who had also been up to the bedroom many times since the morning. Isabel had said she’d take over June-watch, so Kat had left for her appointment at the Italian Bakery.

  “I’m sorry you can’t meet my wife, Matteo’s mother. She’s taking care of a sick little niece today, but I’m sure you’ll have the chance to meet her soon.” Alonzo turned to Matteo. “Why don’t you give the young lady an espresso while I make sure everything is set up in the kitchen.”

  For a moment, though, Matteo didn’t move. He was staring at her ring. “It looks like congratulations are in order.”

  She glanced at the ring, the beautiful diamond glittering on her finger in its lovely antique setting, and offered something of a thank-you smile. “I can’t wait to get into that kitchen. It smells amazing in here. It’s wonderful of your father to take this time to teach me,” she added, realizing she was rambling.

  She felt Matteo watching her, waiting for her to say something, but what could she say about the ring? I said yes, but I’m not sure? I’m not sure why I’m not sure? My mother is sure and made me feel surer, but I look at you, I look around me at this place, my dream, and I wonder…

  “Would you like that espresso?” he asked, his dark eyes on hers. She wondered what he was thinking, but she didn’t know him well enough to read his expression. At her “No, thank you,” he said, “To the kitchen, then.”

  In the large kitchen, Alonzo stood behind an old wood farmer’s table, a ball of dough, wrapped in plastic, bowls, and supplies laid out. Matteo stood in the doorway, leaning against the side, sipping his espresso and watching her.

  “Tell me how you decided to become a baker, open your own pasticceria,” she said as she stood next to Alonzo, taking in all the ingredients in front of her. Bowls of various sizes contained everything from flour to sugar to ricotta cheese. Today, she would have her lesson, and next week Alonzo and Francesca would come to the inn to study how she made her muffins.

  “Decide?” Alonzo said as she dusted flour on a large, flat wooden board. “It’s something that chooses us, no? You’re drawn to the kitchen, to the oven. I used to bake as a kid and sell my pastries and breads in the village. Now, on vacations, my wife and I travel, searching for breads and pastries that will—how do you say?—knock us out. Teach us something.”

  Her heart soared at the idea. “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to travel the world, tasting every cake until I found one that made me swoon and apprenticing myself to that master.”

  “Exactly. You’re young, you can go. Take your new husband on your honeymoon, perhaps,” he said, nodding at her ring.

  Again she glanced at the ring, then at Matteo, who leaned silently against the wall, then returned to the front room. He was disappointed, she realized. Perhaps he’d planned to ask her out after the cannoli lesson? The notion sent goose bumps skittering up her spine. She tried to imagine what a date with Matteo would be like, with a guy who’d grown up with immigrant parents and would have so many stories to tell about his family and relatives, a guy who’d gone to medical school in New York City, come home for his residency to be closer to his parents while his father was undergoing chemotherapy, a guy who’d traveled to over fifteen countries. A guy who could whisper all sorts of romantic things in her ear in Italian.

  It’s just outward stuff, she reminded herself. I’m romanticizing him. I don’t even really know him. Her first real boyfriend, whom she’d thought so smart and cool and seemingly worldly at sixteen, ended up being small-minded in ways that had surprised Kat until she’d finally realized that true compatibility and chemistry and love come from a place far different than a list of accomplishments. Another boyfriend who called everyone dude, followed U2 around the country, and had a lawn-mowing business in the summer and operated a beat-up snowplow in the winter, knew more about politics and history than anyone else she’d ever met. People could surprise you. So she would not let herself be dazzled by a beautiful Italian name and hospital scrubs. Or amazing abs and an exotically handsome face. She already was, of course, but she’d keep an eye on it. Oliver deserved better.

  “I’ve already let this dough rest for the one hour required,” Alonzo said. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d have, so I didn’t want to spend too much time on waiting.” He had his recipe handwritten for her and explained how he’d formed the stiff dough. Then he showed her step-by-step how to use the mold, how to fry the cannoli shells until golden brown, just a couple of minutes, and how to fill them with the mixture of cream, ricotta, and sugar. They made several different kinds of fillings, dipped the ends of some of the cannoli into melted chocolate, added chocolate chips.

  She was having such a good time, she’d forgotten all about her ring. And Matteo. Until he returned to the kitchen to sample her work. Alonzo had excused himself to take care of customers, and suddenly the large kitchen felt small with Matteo standing so close to her. She could smell his soap. She watched as he bit into a cannoli with that too sensual mouth.

  “Perfetto,” he said. “Perfect.”

  She smiled and took a bite of her own. It was good. Not Alonzo Viola good, but good nonetheless.

  “You have a bit of cream and powdered sugar on your lip,” he whispered, his eyes on her mouth, his expression… telling. “I would take care of it for you, but the ring prevents that.”

  Something inside her fell away, a flimsy barrier that wasn’t going to hold no matter how much she told herself he was just a hot guy in scrubs whose father could teach her how to make the real-deal cannoli. She liked that he respected the ring. Even if she was guilty that very minute, via her thoughts, of not doing the same.

  He took another bite. “I admire how completely focused on the lesson you were. I can see how passionate, how serious, you are about baking. You’ll have your own bakery one day, I have no doubt.”

  “It’s my dream,” she said, glancing around. “That oven, these silver bowls, this dusting of flour. This place. One day.” She put down the cannoli. “Right now, everything is so… tenuous.”

  “Except that,” he said, his gaze on the ring.

  “Even that,” she whispered so low she wasn’t sure she’d even said it aloud.

  “Oh?” he asked, his expression serious.

  She stared at the dusting of flour. “I’m just so confused about everything right now. My mother— She’s… You know what she is. I can’t think. I can’t— I don’t know how I feel about anything. I just feel so…”

  “You feel what?” he asked, covering her hand with his own. His hand was strong, warm.

  “Like I’m on a one-way track, I guess.” She threw up her hands, missing the contact of his skin immediately.

  “A one-way track to where? Do you mean to the life you’re already living?”

  She turned to him. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. The life I’m already living. The life that won’t change. Nothing will change.
I’ll marry the boy I met at five years old. I’ll bake my one-hundred-millionth scone and muffin for the inn. Once a year I’ll vacation in Paris or Rome or somewhere I’ve always wanted to go. And then I’ll come home, to the life that’s been set up for me forever.”

  “Set up for you? By whom?”

  She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “By—” Huh. By whom was right. “By… circumstances. I thought about college, but I knew I wanted to open my own bakery, so I figured I’d work at my craft by baking for the inn. So I’ve been doing that. And since my mother’s always been alone here, my staying and helping out always felt like the right thing to do.”

  “So this life you’re not so sure feels completely right anymore was set up by you. You know that you can change your life, right? You’re the captain of your own ship, as they say.”

  “But now my mother is dying, Matteo. And her greatest wish is to see me settled and happy, married to the boy that my father loved like his own son. And I’m not sure I don’t want to marry Oliver. He’s gold, like my friend Lizzie says. He really is. I’m just not sure I’m ready to settle down yet. I want to see Paris. I want to eat tapas in Spain. I want to see the land where Isak Dinesen had her farm in Africa. I want to taste every pastry in Paris and learn from the masters, like your father. But that’s not reality.”

  “Who says? You’re twenty-five years old, Kat. If you’re not going to travel the world and meet new people and live an adventure now, when will you? Now is the time.”

  “Now my mother is dying. And Oliver proposed to me and I accepted. Watching me marry him in the backyard of the Three Captains’ Inn will put her heart at peace.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “I would think that you happy would put her heart at peace. But no matter what and where your life takes you, Kat, I’m glad I met you.”

  She was so close to tears that she turned around and willed herself not to cry.

  “I assume you have a wedding date in the not-too-far future.”

  She turned to him, almost shocked that he’d gone there. But it meant that he understood.

  “We’ve set the date for November, around Thanksgiving. It’s my mother’s favorite holiday. She’s been busy planning the details—when she’s up for it. Will that be too much for her—running around to bridal salons and caterers to sample prime rib?”

  “She’ll need to be the judge of what she can handle. If she feels weak, she simply needs to rest. But if she wants to plan your wedding, it sounds as though it might be just what she needs, a happy purpose, the beautiful cycle of life, of new beginnings. If it’s for the right reasons.”

  The right reasons. Right and not right had gotten so confused inside her that she didn’t know the difference. And new beginnings? Why did the idea of marrying Oliver, of living in Boothbay Harbor forever, of managing the inn and even opening her bakery downtown, feel the opposite? Her stomach started to churn.

  “I’d better get back to the inn.” She needed air. “Thank you for arranging this, Matteo. It was a very special morning. I’ll never forget it.” She began collecting bowls to carry to the sink, but Matteo stopped her, his dark eyes intense on her. “You’re our guest.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  He smiled and she hurried past him out the door, away from that face, that body, that voice that mesmerized her. She spent a few minutes thanking his father and was swept into a crushing hug and given a box of pastry for the family, including something “extraspecial” for Lolly.

  She wanted to stay and leave at the same time.

  In the afternoon, Kat took her mother to the hospital for tests to check her blood cell counts. Isabel was staying close to June, who’d gotten out of bed for Charlie’s sake, but was still so shaken she could barely speak. Kat had offered to meet Charlie at the school bus, but June said she’d go, that she hadn’t seen Charlie’s sweet face since the evening before. Kat had gone with her and let June have the silence, the lack of questions, the lack of statements, on the brief walk. When they’d returned to the house, June disappeared to her bedroom. Kat filled in Lolly, who slowly made her way upstairs to the attic room, spending at least a half hour with June before Kat saw, through the little kitchen window, June helping Lolly down the back stairs. June looked a bit better, Kat had thought. Whatever Lolly had said had clearly helped.

  As a nurse came in and out of Lolly’s room to take her vitals, Kat’s mother lay reclined on the padded chair, slowly flipping through a bridal magazine, and even turning the pages seemed to take her energy. “Oh, Kat, look at this.”

  Kat pulled her chair closer to her mother and looked at the photo. A bride in a beautiful, simple wedding dress, exactly the kind of dress that would have stopped Kat in her tracks in front of the windows of a bridal salon. It was white satin, sleeveless, and tea length and had a subtle fifties quality, the palest of blue ribbon running along an Empire waist. The dress was meant for an outdoor wedding in Maine. She could see herself in that dress. She could.

  “It’s just perfect, Mom. You always did know my style, didn’t you.”

  “You’re easy. You like simple. No muss or fuss.”

  Yet she was complicating her life.

  Lolly’s eyes got glassy and she brought her hand up to her mouth and gestured for Kat to get the “throw-up bowl,” as she called it. Kat hated to see her mother so sickened from what was supposed to help her. How would she tolerate the second round of chemo next week when she was still so sick from the first?

  When Lolly finished, she lay back, her face glistening with sweat. Kat rushed into the bathroom across the hall for a cool washcloth and blotted her mother’s forehead and cheeks, running her hand over the top of her head to smooth away the escaping, sweaty strands of hair from her braid. A clump of gray-blond hair came out in Kat’s hand and she burst into tears.

  “It’s okay, Kat,” Lolly said. “This is what happens. What’s expected. It’s the surprises that I hate.”

  Kat stared at the hair in her hand. “I love you, Mom,” Kat said, surprising herself. Clearly surprising her mother too. Lolly reached for Kat’s hand and held it.

  Kat was about to lose it. She needed to go somewhere, somewhere private and just cry, let it out, all the fear and uncertainty. But she couldn’t cry in the bathroom and upset her mother.

  Lolly pulled her baggie of Wheat Thins out of her tote bag. Her favorite antidote to the nausea. “Kat, could you get me an iced tea? With two lemons. And one sugar.”

  “Be right back,” Kat said, grateful for the task. She’d stop in the hallway restroom and cry there, then dash down to the cafeteria.

  But as she rushed down the hall, she saw Matteo outside a patient’s room, looking over a clipboard. Kat stopped in front of him, unable to stop the flow of tears.

  “Kat? Is your mother all right?”

  “She’s so frail and pale and nauseated. Her hair came out in a clump in my hand.” Kat realized she was still holding the hair and uncurled her palm. “I hate this. I hate it.” She started to cry and he held out his hand and led her over to a group of chairs by the wall. And she’s picking out dresses and shoes and thinking up hors d’oeuvres and it’s the only thing making her happy through all this.

  He gestured for her to sit down, then sat beside her, still holding her hand. “Try to remember that the effects of the chemo are temporary, that it’s what your mother needs right now.”

  “I just didn’t realize it would be like this. I thought the chemo would make her feel better, not worse. It’s so backward. I hate it.”

  He leaned closer and took the hairs from her hand, wrapping them in a tissue from his pocket. “This is a side effect.” He got up and tossed the tissue into the little wastebasket at the end of their row of chairs. “But it’s helping to prolong her life.”

  “Miserably, though.”

  His dark ey
es were so compassionate, so full of empathy, that Kat just wanted to throw herself against him and let him hold her. “I know how you feel, Kat. I remember going through this with my dad. The only way to get through it when you watch someone you love so much feel so sick, when you feel so helpless, is to lean on your friends, your family, anyone who gives you strength.”

  “Is it okay that I’m leaning on you?”

  “More than okay.” His phone vibrated and he checked it. “Look, today we’ll find out how we need to adjust the infusion for next week. That’ll be very helpful.” The phone vibrated again. “I have to go, Kat. But call me anytime, day or night. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she said, surprised to discover she did feel stronger. She could go get her mother that iced tea, be there for her, instead of falling apart and making her mother feel worse.

  She watched Matteo walk away until he rounded a corner.

  “I didn’t realize you and your mother’s doctor were so close.”

  Kat glanced up, and there was Oliver, his expression one of angry confusion. She bolted up, her cheeks hot.

  He was staring at her, in his blue eyes a combination of anger and hurt. “I came because you said last night that you were worried about the testing today, that you needed to be strong for your mother, especially when you had June on your mind too. I came to support you. But it looks like you found someone else to turn to.”

  Oh, no. “Oliver, I’ve gotten to know Matteo—Dr. Viola—over the past few weeks, and when I came out of my mother’s room just before, I burst into tears and he led me over to these chairs to talk. He was holding my hand because—” She stopped, realizing that what she was about to say was not a lie. Not at all.

  “Because?”

  “Because he’s become a good friend.”

  “Well, Kat, I was standing over there watching you from the moment your ‘good friend’ Matteo led you over here—by the hand. I saw the way you looked at him. The way he looked at you. So don’t lie to my face.”