Francesca's Kitchen (17 page)

“G
ood weekend?” said Shirley.

The inevitable cup of coffee in hand, she was sitting back against the edge of Loretta's desk, looking down at her coworker, who was doing her best to get herself organized. It was Monday morning, and Loretta was in her usual state of near-despondency, a mood that descended on her at the start of virtually every workweek.

“Let's just say it was forgettable,” she replied with a weary sigh, “and leave it at that.”

“Oh, come on,” prodded Shirley. “You can do better than that. Tell me all about how Saturday night went with
You-Know-Who
.”

Loretta gaped at her friend.

“How on earth did you know about that?” she exclaimed.

“Oh, I have my ways,” said a smug Shirley. “But I can never reveal my sources. You know how it is, attorney–client privilege. So, go on. Tell me what happened!”

“Nothing happened,” said Loretta with grim firmness, “absolutely nothing.” Then, rolling her eyes, she added, “Thank God.”

“Ooh,” cooed Shirley, her curiosity even more piqued. “Sounds like an intriguing tale. I did warn you, of course, but you wouldn't listen. So, come on. Let's have it. Enquiring minds need to know.” She looked at Loretta with pleading, inquisitive eyes.

Loretta gave a little laugh. She considered spilling all the beans, for she could see no harm in it, but in truth, she simply was in no mood to relive Saturday night's escapade. It was all still too fresh in her mind, and she was trying her best to forget it.

“Some other time,” Loretta finally told her. “Maybe someday when you start writing for the tabloids.”

“Oh, you're no fun,” Shirley pouted. She looked ready to nag her some more on the subject, but instead leaned closer and looked with concern into Loretta's face. “Hey, kid, you look a little peaked today,” she said. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just really tired,” said Loretta with a shrug, “but that's nothing new.”

Shirley reached out and put the back of her hand against Loretta's forehead. “I don't know,” she said thoughtfully. “You feel a little warm. You better be careful, I think you might be coming down with something.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Loretta smiled. “I'll remember to button up my overcoat.”

“Hey, it's no joke,” said Shirley. “You have to take care of yourself this time of year. There's all sorts of stuff going around.” Shirley could not help but share with Loretta a horrendous story she had recently read about a woman somewhere out in the Midwest who had succumbed to a mysterious respiratory infection that still had all her doctors baffled. After imparting this happy tale, she eventually went on her way to start her own workday.

A short while later that morning, Mr. Pace happened to amble by Loretta's desk. On his shoulder rode a new putter he was intending to put to the test when he reached his office.

“Good morning, Loretta,” he greeted her in his always-pleasant way.

“Good morning, Mister Pace,” she said brightly, though she was feeling anything but. “Planning to play eighteen today?”

“I think I'll only have time for nine,” he confided with a wink. “It's kind of tough this time of year.”

“Sounds like a good time for a trip to Florida,” she suggested.

“Ah, now there's an idea,” he replied with a wistful sigh.

Instead of moving on to his office, Pace lingered there for a few moments, whistling softly while casting a glance about the office. Looking vaguely ill at ease, he fidgeted with the handle of the putter and cleared his throat, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get up the nerve.

“Was there something you wanted, Mister Pace?” Loretta asked, hoping to put him at ease.

Pace leaned closer.

“Actually,” he began in a tentative voice, “I just thought I'd mention that I heard through the grapevine that you and Ned Hadley had dinner Saturday night.” At the look of chagrin on her face, he quickly added by way of explanation, “I have one or two friends at that club, you see.”

“Ugh,” Loretta groaned, for she wanted to crawl under her desk. Was there anyone who didn't know about her pathetic attempt at a social life? Though it had no exact written policy, it was common knowledge that the firm frowned upon romantic liaisons between employees and clients. Worse, she had—almost—had one with a personal friend of the firm's senior partner. She cringed as she waited for the expected reprimand. To her surprise, however, none was forthcoming. Instead, Pace looked down at her with fatherly concern.

“I, um, hope all went well,” he said delicately.

“It depends on how you'd define the word ‘well,'” answered Loretta. She looked up and gave him a dejected shrug.

Pace let out a grunt of consternation. “I've known the Hadleys for years,” he said. “Wonderful, good-hearted people, but I'm afraid the son is a bit of a…well, let's just say that he has something of a reputation.”

“Don't worry,” Loretta told him with a rueful smile, “I managed to keep
my
reputation intact—just barely.”

“Good girl,” said Pace, seeming much relieved. Then, in a regretful voice, “I have to apologize, though. I really should have said something to you much sooner when I first saw him taking an interest, but I thought it best to not interfere. Besides, nobody likes it when the old man goes around butting his nose into other people's business.”

“Well, from now on, feel free to butt your nose into my business any time you want,” Loretta assured him. She started to stand, intending to fix Pace's tie, which was once again dreadfully askew, but suddenly feeling light-headed and weak, she plopped right back down in her chair.

“Are you not feeling well?” said Pace, coming to her side. “Your face has gone very pale.”

“I don't know,” said Loretta anxiously. “I was feeling all right just a minute ago. Now all of a sudden, I'm cold all over, and it feels like my head weighs a thousand pounds. You don't think I'm having a stroke, do you?”

Pace gave her a bemused look. “Did you get a flu shot this year?” he asked her.

“The kids got them, but I didn't bother,” said Loretta, starting to shiver. It felt like she was sitting in the middle of a walk-in freezer.

Pace clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“You should have bothered,” he told her. With that, he took her gently by the arm and helped her stand. “Come on,” he said, “I think we'd better get you home.”

Despite Mr. Pace's fretful pleas to let him or someone else take her home, Loretta insisted on driving herself. It was foolish of her to do so, for she was feeling very unsteady, but Loretta possessed a rather pronounced stubborn streak, which often chose to surface at times like these. It was, she supposed, some sort of deeply ingrained survival instinct that kept her fighting when the chips were down. Nonetheless, she was grateful for Pace's kind attention as he walked her out to the car, all the while making her promise that she would drive carefully.

By the time she made it home, Loretta had neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything other than drag herself upstairs and drop fully clothed into bed. She tugged the blankets over her, intent on burrowing herself in and staying there to keep warm, but then she let out a sorrowful groan, for she realized there was something she needed to do first. Rolling onto her side, she feebly reached for the telephone and brought it onto the bed. With great exertion, she dialed a number.

“Hello, Mrs. Campanile. It's Loretta Simmons,” she said with a dry cough when Francesca's answering machine picked up. “I'm home sick with the flu today, so there's no need for you to come. In fact, it would be much smarter if you didn't. I don't want to spread this around. I'll call you tomorrow.” Then she hung up the phone, dropped her head back onto the pillow, and promptly fell off into a fitful sleep.

W
hen she opened her eyes many hours later, Loretta realized that she had lost all conception of time since she had put herself to bed earlier that morning. At the moment just before she awoke, she had been having a rather bizarre dream in which her bed had somehow been transported to the middle of a barnyard, where a great clutch of chickens was running about on the floor all around her. It was the sound of the hens' clucking that Loretta remembered most vividly, and she was alarmed to find that she still heard it, or at least something of a similar nature. She peered about the bedroom to find its source. By now, all was plunged completely into darkness, save for the softly glowing computer monitor in the corner, where she discovered Penny sitting—tapping away at the keyboard. The mystery solved, Loretta put a hand to her forehead. Shirley had been right; she was definitely burning up. Summoning all her will, Loretta tried to sit up, but her head was throbbing, as were her back and legs. She felt as though she had been run over by a train.

At hearing her stir, Penny jumped up and came to the side of the bed. Looking down with worried eyes, she reached out and touched her mother's face.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, stroking her hair. “I was waiting for you to wake up. Are you okay?”

It was all Loretta could do to keep her eyes open. “I will be,” she moaned in frustration. “That is, if this doesn't kill me first—which honestly doesn't sound all that bad right at the moment.”

“Don't say that!” exclaimed her daughter, who looked like she was about to burst into tears.

“Calm down. Don't worry,” Loretta told her, forcing a smile. “It's just the flu. I'll be okay in a couple of days.” She looked around the room. “Where's your brother?”

“Downstairs, doing his homework.”

“His
homework
?” scoffed Loretta. “Is he feeling sick too?”

“Doesn't look like it,” shrugged Penny.

Loretta settled back and closed her eyes. “Do me a favor, sweetie,” she said. “Go into the medicine cabinet and get me the bottle of Tylenol and a cup of water.”

“I think there's already some right there,” answered Penny, nodding to the bedside table.

Loretta lifted her head off the pillow and looked at the table. Sure enough, a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol stood there along with a small teapot and cup, neither of which she could remember having used in years.

“Now, how on earth did that get there?” she wondered.

“Probably Mrs. C,” offered Penny.

“No,” said Loretta. “I left a message for her not to come today.”

“Guess she didn't get it, because she came,” said Penny, walking over to the other side of the bed. She put a hand on the teapot. “It's not hot anymore.”

“That's okay,” said her mother, scratching her head. “Do me a favor. Pour a little bit into the cup and give me the bottle of medicine.”

While Penny poured the tea, Loretta opened the bottle of pain reliever and shook out two tablets. The tea her daughter offered her was cold and bitter, but it served to wash the pills down. When she was certain that she had completely swallowed them, Loretta lay back again and closed her eyes. It occurred to her then that she did indeed have some vague recollection of someone coming into the room and tucking the blanket around her earlier that afternoon. In her fevered state, Loretta had imagined it to be her mother. She had dismissed the memory as a dream, but now she realized that it must have been Mrs. Campanile.

“Are you guys hungry?” Loretta asked feebly.

“No,” Penny answered. “Mrs. C cooked us supper.”

“She did?” said Loretta, not sure if she felt consternation or gratitude. She was grateful to Francesca for having taken care of supper, but the last thing she needed was for the older woman to catch her flu and leave them high and dry for a babysitter. “What did she make?” she asked, too weak to contemplate the repercussions.

“It was this kind of weird pie thing she made in the frying pan,” said her daughter. “She called it a frittatt, or something like that.”

“Frittatt? What was in it?”

“I don't know,” shrugged Penny. “Different stuff. Potatoes and eggs—and onions, I think.”

“And how was it?” asked her mother.

“Not bad, actually. She left some on a plate for you and said I should bring it up to you if you were hungry when you woke up. Want me to go get it?”

“No, that's okay, honey,” said Loretta thoughtfully. Then, with a yawn, “I think I'm just going to rest for now. Do me one more favor and set the alarm clock for me so that I can get up and help you guys get ready for school tomorrow.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Penny assured her. “Mrs. C already made us get our clothes all ready for tomorrow morning.”

“She did, huh?” said Loretta. She wanted to query her daughter further about what else her babysitter had been up to, but she felt the heavy weight of fatigue pulling her back into sleep. “I guess I'll have to talk to her about it tomorrow,” she said with a weary yawn. And then she was out.

“M
rs. Simmons?”

No answer.

“Hello, Mrs. Simmons?” Francesca called softly again. “It's just me, Mrs. Campanile.”

Still no reply.

Standing at the front door, a bag of groceries clutched in her arm, Francesca pushed the door further open and peeked inside. It was late in the morning and, to all appearances, no one was home, a circumstance she found quite puzzling. Just the previous day, the poor Simmons woman had been bedridden; it astounded Francesca to think that she might have recovered so quickly and gone to work that day. Just then, another thought occurred to her. What if the young woman had become so ill overnight that she had ended up in the hospital? And what of the children? As it was, Francesca had fretted about them all night, worrying about how they would manage to prepare their own breakfast and get themselves ready for school. The idea that they too might come down with the flu preyed equally on her thoughts. She was just beginning to cycle through the endless list of alarming possibilities she had stored in her mind when she suddenly heard what she thought might be the stirring of bedclothes from one of the upstairs bedrooms. Francesca leaned in through the door and listened more closely. Yes, she heard it again, then all was quiet once more.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Francesca tucked the house key back behind the mailbox and stepped inside. As she stood in the front hall, removing her coat and hat, she noted that the children's backpacks were nowhere in sight, a sure sign that the two had made it out of the house to school that morning. Stepping near the staircase, Francesca leaned over and gave a glance up, recalling the previous day, when she had ventured upstairs for the first time to check on the Simmons woman. The children's bedrooms, she had discovered, were in astonishing disorder. The floor in Will's bedroom was littered with LEGO building blocks, magnets, miniature planes and race cars, game cards, action figures, a football and a baseball, comic books, and a variety of other paraphernalia, all strewn helter-skelter. The bed itself looked as though it had not been properly made in weeks. Francesca had been sorely tempted to make it herself, but reaching it to do so would have been like crossing a minefield. Conditions were only slightly better in Penny's room, where much of the mess consisted of shoes and clothes, stuffed animals, and magazines. Francesca clicked her tongue and shook her head at the thought of it all. She surmised, quite rightly, that things had not improved in the last twenty-four hours. Restoring some semblance of order in the children's rooms was a project she longed to tackle, but for the moment, she had other plans, and in any event, she did not wish to disturb their mother's rest any more than she already had with her entrance into the house. And so, Francesca moved stealthily to the kitchen, set the bag of groceries on the counter, and went straight to work.

Sometimes when she was alone at home and she had things on her mind, a not-uncommon state of affairs, Francesca tended to talk to herself as she went about her business. In truth, she wouldn't talk so much to herself as she would to her husband, Leo, who despite having passed on to the next life, remained for her every bit as good a listener as he had been in this life. Though she herself was quite often unaware that she was doing it, anyone who might have chanced to overhear Francesca as she walked about the house rambling on about whatever happened to be preoccupying her would have sworn that she was carrying on an actual conversation with her deceased spouse. It was like listening to a person speaking over the telephone to someone else.

And so it was a short while later on this particular day after Francesca had commenced operations in the Simmons kitchen. It was nearing noon, and she had been talking a blue streak for quite a few minutes, when she was surprised to hear the sound of footsteps slowly descending the staircase. By this time, Francesca had already straightened up the counters and washed the children's breakfast dishes; she had been pleased to note the telltale crumbs on the table and the plates and bowls in the sink, evidence that they had managed to make themselves some toast and cereal. A simple broth mixed with pastina and some sliced carrots simmered on the stove's back burner. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned just as Loretta trudged into the kitchen and deposited herself in one of the chairs at the table. The younger woman was a pitiable sight, her hair a matted mess and her face dreadfully drawn and wan. Two dark semicircles, like smudges of charcoal, shadowed her eyes.

“Oh, it
is
you, Mrs. Campanile,” she said feebly. “I thought I heard your voice. Were you on the phone?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” said Francesca, coming to her side. “I feel awful. I must have been talking to myself again. Kids and grandkids will do that to you. I'm so sorry for waking you.”

“Oh, no, it's okay,” Loretta told her. “I needed to get up for a little while.”

“But how are you feeling?” said Francesca. “You really shouldn't be out of bed.”

“And you really shouldn't be here,” answered the younger woman. “I'd feel even worse than I already do if you caught this from me.”

“Oh, don't worry about me,” Francesca assured her. “I got my flu shot back in October.”

The younger woman gave a sigh. “Did everyone but me get one of those?” she said ruefully.

Francesca gave her a kind smile, patted her on the shoulder, and turned back to the stove. “How's your stomach?” she asked over her shoulder. “Think you could manage a little something to eat? I made some soup.”

“I guess it's worth a try,” said Loretta in a hesitant voice. “But please, Mrs. Campanile—”

“Francesca,” the older woman interrupted her as she ladled out the broth and pastina into a bowl.

“Oh, okay. Francesca,” Loretta continued. “It's very kind of you to do this, coming to the house so early today, and staying late with the children last night, but I really don't think I can afford—”

“You want cheese on that?” asked Francesca before Loretta could finish whatever she meant to say.

“Cheese?” she said.

“On your soup,” said Francesca, her back still to Loretta. “I always like to have a little grated Romano on mine, but everybody's different. It's up to you.”

“Um, no thank you,” said Loretta. “I don't want you to go to any more trouble.”

“What trouble?” said Francesca, finally turning back to the table with the steaming bowl of soup and a soup spoon in hand. She set both before Loretta and stepped back.

“There you go, Mrs. Simmons—”

“Loretta,” the younger woman interrupted her. She looked up at Francesca with tired eyes and mustered a weak smile.

“Okay, Loretta it is,” said Francesca, returning her smile. “Now just eat this slow, to warm you up inside a little bit, while I finish what I'm doing here.”

“What exactly are you doing?” inquired Loretta before taking a spoonful of the broth. The taste seemed to please her, which in turned pleased Francesca.

Francesca returned to the counter and began to dice up some garlic. “I'm making some sauce,” she explained, the knife clopping against the cutting board.

“What kind of sauce?”

“Tomato sauce,” answered Francesca. “Of course, some people around here call it gravy. I'll make enough for one or two meals.”

“But how do you make the sauce?” said Loretta, sounding sincerely curious. “I mean, if you don't mind my asking.”

“Oh, it's the easiest thing in the world,” laughed Francesca. “Just watch while you eat your soup.”

When she was finished slicing the garlic, Francesca slid it all into a pot with some olive oil and turned up the heat. In a few moments, the garlic's strong but pleasing aroma was wafting through the air, giving the kitchen the warm smell of a trattoria. Francesca loved that delicious, distinctive smell as much as anything else in life, other than her family and friends. It was a simple thing, but something about it always filled her with hope and optimism. Breathing it in, she hoped it would do the same for Loretta. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder to see if the young woman was still paying attention. To her satisfaction, she noted that Loretta had already consumed most of the soup.

“Now what?” asked Loretta.

“Now a little bit of meat so that the sauce is nice and thick,” she replied.

Francesca opened a small package of ground beef she had purchased that morning and took a fistful of the cool, red meat. Holding it over the pot, she crumbled the meat in her hand and let it drop bit by bit into the pot with the simmering garlic.

“All you have to do is brown it a little,” Francesca said. When the last of the meat had fallen from her hand, she threw in a little salt and pepper, and stirred it all around with a spoon. Then she went back to the cutting board, sliced up a piece of pepperoni, and pushed that into the pot as well. “I like to add that for flavor,” she explained, looking back once more at Loretta.

Loretta seemed to be watching with interest, but Francesca could see that her energy was waning fast. She hurriedly opened two cans of kitchen-ready tomatoes and poured them into the pot before adding a sprinkling of basil and oregano. She gave it all a good stir, covered the pot, and turned the heat down low.

“And that's that,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Now we just let it cook on its own for a while. All that's left to do is boil some pasta when it's time for dinner.” She went to the table and sat next to Loretta. “What did that take? Five, ten minutes?”

“You make it look easy,” Loretta said wearily. “I wish I could cook like that.”

“It's not a matter of wishing, honey,” Francesca told her. “
Wanting
is what's important. If someone wants to learn how to cook, they can. Anyone can do it. You just have to have a little patience. Make it fun, and don't be afraid to make a mistake. I think it's like that with most things in life.”

“Maybe,” said Loretta, sounding less than convinced.

Francesca folded her hands on her lap and sat in silence for a few moments. There was something she had been itching to ask Loretta, even though she knew that it was none of her business. Curiosity finally overcame her, so she looked up and gave her a nod.

“So, how was your date on Saturday with your gentleman friend?” she asked very tentatively. “Will you be seeing him again?”

“Oh, God, no, not if I can help it,” groaned Loretta. “He was a total creep.”

“Hmm,” grunted Francesca. “I thought as much when I first met him, but I didn't want to say so. Nobody likes it when an old lady interferes.”

“You know, you're the second person to tell me something like that,” griped Loretta. “Do me a favor. In the future, feel free to interfere.”

“I'll try to remember,” Francesca told her with a kind smile.

Loretta slouched back in her chair. A sad, weary expression, a look of utter discouragement, came over her face. “Are there any good men left out there for someone like me?” she lamented.

“Oh, they're out there…somewhere,” Francesca assured her. “There's someone for everyone.”

“But where do you find them?”

“Oh, there's no point looking,” said Francesca. “From what I've seen in life, the harder you look for something, the harder it is to find it. I think that's especially true for love. You have to just let go and let love find you. Just be patient. You're a young, attractive woman. The right man will show up at your door someday.”

“Yeah, but then how do you get him to stay?” said Loretta. “It's not easy these days.”

“I don't know,” Francesca replied, “but in my day, the first thing you did when you met an attractive man that you wanted to keep was to sit him down and give him something good to eat. You know, a lot has changed in the world since I was young, but that old saying about the way to a man's heart is as true now as it was then. Sounds silly, but it works.”

“It would be nice to have a man cook for
me
,” Loretta opined, her face brightening a little.

“Well, that's a nice fantasy,” chuckled Francesca, “but I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for it.”

“I guess you're right,” sighed Loretta. “So that leaves it up to me. Maybe you could show me the ropes someday.”

“Any time,” said Francesca, and she truly meant it. “But for now, you should get right back in bed. You look ready to fall out of that chair.”

“Yes,” said Loretta, giving her a tired nod. “I think it's that time.” She stood and started to reach for her spoon and bowl.

“Leave those,” Francesca told her. “Just go and rest.”

Loretta hesitated for a moment, her lips pursed. “Thank you so much for the soup,” she said, her voice quavering ever so slightly. “I know I don't act it, but I really appreciate—”

“Come on now,” said Francesca, gently taking her by the arm before she could finish. “You need to get your rest. We'll talk again later.”

With that, she guided Loretta to the bottom of the stairs and watched until she had safely trudged back up to her bedroom. When she was certain that Loretta had made it back into bed, Francesca returned to the kitchen to check on the sauce. Humming a tune to herself, she lifted the lid off the pot and gave the now-bubbling red liquid inside a stir. It was a simple sauce, she reflected, nothing special at all, but hopefully the start of something good.