Francesca's Kitchen (18 page)

T
he doorbell rang.

Francesca, who was standing atop a step stool, gazing into one of Loretta's cupboards, looked at the clock and frowned. It was a few minutes past one. Who, she wondered with some consternation, could be coming to the door at that early hour on a weekday afternoon? Having neglected to bring cookies or some other sweet with her that morning, Francesca had been poking around the kitchen, looking to see what might be on hand that she could use to make a treat for Penny and Will when they came home from school. In truth, there wasn't much to be found, but Francesca had just managed to spy a can of sliced peaches up on one of the cupboard shelves and an unopened box of baking mix on another. The refrigerator, she had already discovered, held a carton of eggs and a half gallon of milk, and a bag of brown sugar was hiding behind the coffee canister on the counter. As she was standing there atop the step stool, an idea for something tasty had just been starting to percolate in Francesca's head. The ringing of the doorbell, however, distracted her and chased the nascent recipe from her mind. Annoyed at the interruption to her deliberations, she gave a growl of displeasure, stepped down onto the floor, and went to the front door to see who it might be.

Francesca opened the door a crack and looked out onto the front step, where she beheld a dapper, older gentleman waiting. The collar of his long gray coat turned up against the chill wind—it was a sunny day, but had suddenly turned quite blustery—he held in his hands a cardboard box from which protruded a white bag holding a loaf of bread. The tops of some plastic containers were also visible. Francesca always had a healthy suspicion of strangers, and she eyed this one sharply, but her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear, especially from someone who came to the house bearing food. Still, she opened the door only a little further, so that she might scrutinize the man more closely.

“May I help you?” she said tersely, fixing him with a stern, skeptical gaze.

“Good afternoon, ma'am,” he said affably. “Sorry to bother you. I've just come to deliver this to Loretta Simmons. I hope this is the right house.”

“Who are you?” said Francesca, not at all concerned with the forbidding tone of her voice.

“My name is Bill Pace,” he answered. “Loretta works for me at the firm.”

“And
I
work for Loretta right here,” countered Francesca, narrowing her gaze at him. “Does that mean I work for you?”

The query brought a bemused look to the gentleman's face. “Syllogistically speaking,” he replied after a moment's contemplation, “I suppose one could make that deduction, but of course, I would never be the one to do it.”

“You talk just like a lawyer.”

“Well, I guess that's because I
am
a lawyer.” He paused and gave her a smile. “So I take it that I have come to the right place.”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Francesca. “But we have the flu here, you know. You probably shouldn't come in—
Dio mio
,
hold on!
”

A great gust of wind had just slammed into the house and blew a swirling cloud of snow off the tops of the bushes. Despite his sturdy build, the wind and snow hit Pace with such surprising force that the box nearly fell from his hands and he from the top step. When he had regained his balance, the gentleman's face lit up in a startled smile as he reached his arms around the box and clutched it more tightly. Despite the near mishap, or perhaps because of it, his eyes were full of merriment, as if he wanted to laugh out loud but didn't dare, for propriety's sake. Despite his years, he looked for an instant like a little boy who had just happily picked himself up off the ground and found himself unscathed after tumbling out of a tree right in front of his mother. Francesca herself had almost laughed out loud. Just the same, she maintained her stern demeanor.

“Well, I did get my flu shot, if that helps,” Pace finally said once he had collected himself.

“Never mind about that,” huffed Francesca as she opened the door wide. “Just come inside before you get yourself blown away.”

“Thank you,” he said, stepping quickly inside. “It is a bit breezy out here.”

As he came in and shook off the cold, Francesca regarded him more closely. He was, she suspected, of the same age as herself, perhaps a year or two different in either direction. He had a pleasant face with bright blue eyes like her own. Time had left its mark on his features, but not so much that he looked old to her. The creases in his forehead and the crow's feet by his eyes were, to Francesca, simply signs of a well-lived life. All in all, he was a handsome and well-groomed gent, save for his thin silver hair, which the wind had made a tousled mess.

“You should try wearing a hat,” she observed. “It's not spring out there, you know.”

“I had one with me this morning,” shrugged Pace, passing a hand over his hair to restore order to the top of his head, “but I couldn't seem to put my hands on it when I left the office.”

Francesca clicked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly.

“So, Mister…what was it again?”

“Pace,” he answered. “And I'm sorry, your name is…”

“Francesca Campanile.”

“My, that's a beautiful name,” he said.

“Thank you. I've always liked it,” replied Francesca, inwardly flattered by the remark, though she would never admit it.

“I thought when I came to the door that you might be Loretta's mother,” Pace went on.

“No, I'm just the nanny,” said Francesca.

“How nice,” he said. “Tell me, how is Loretta feeling?”

“Not so great,” said Francesca. “She's upstairs sleeping right now. Do you want me to wake her and tell her you're here?”

“Oh, please, not at all,” replied Pace. “I can only stay a minute, so just let her rest.” He paused and gave the air a sniff. His eyes lighting up, he looked past her to the kitchen. “Hmm, it certainly smells like something good is cooking,” he said.

“Oh, nothing special,” said Francesca. “Just a little tomato sauce for dinner later.”

Pace nodded. “Ah, I recognized that smell as soon as I walked in the door,” he said in a wistful voice.

Francesca hesitated for just a moment, studying his face to see if he was sincere, before finally giving in to a smile. She nodded at the box. “Why don't you bring that into the kitchen and show me what you've brought,” she suggested, “and maybe I'll let you have a little taste.”

“Now that's an offer I couldn't possibly refuse,” said Pace, his eyes lighting up again. He followed close behind as she led him into the kitchen.

“Sit there,” said Francesca, gesturing to a chair. She took the box from his hands, set it on the table, and began to take out its contents. “A nice loaf of bread,” she said, giving the bag a sniff; the aroma of freshly baked bread was another of Francesca's favorite things. “What else?”

“That's chicken-and-escarole soup in the plastic containers,” said Pace. “And there's some veal cutlets and vegetables as well in the others. I bought it all at Angelo's on the Hill on the way over.”

“I haven't been to that restaurant in years,” said Francesca in a wistful voice of her own. “My husband and I used to take our kids there sometimes when they were little.”

“One of my favorite places,” said Pace.

Francesca picked up the containers of food and began to transfer them to the refrigerator. The loaf of bread, however, she set on the counter next to the stove. “You're a nice boss, to bring all this food,” she said, reaching up into the cupboard for a dish. She placed it on the counter next to the bread and opened the drawer to find a bread knife.

“Well, there's nothing worse than being all alone when you're sick,” said Pace with a shrug. “I just thought some soup would make Loretta feel a little better, and the meat and vegetables would save her the trouble of having to cook supper later for the kids. I hadn't realized, of course, that she was already in such good hands.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Francesca assured him. “None of that food will go to waste. I'll just heat it all up later and save the sauce for tomorrow. Speaking of which…”

Francesca took the knife and lopped off a sizable chunk from the heel of the bread. This she again cut in half to open it up, and set it on the plate. Then she removed the lid from the pot and dipped the ladle into the bubbling sauce. She drew forth a healthy sampling, making certain to collect some bits of meat in the process, and poured it all across the bread and onto the plate. Delighted at the look of eager anticipation in his eyes, she set the steaming treat in front of Pace.

“Now don't get that all over yourself before you go back to work,” she warned him, pushing a paper napkin his way.

“I'll do my best,” he replied. Wasting no time, Pace pulled the bread apart and lifted a piece to his mouth. Taking care not to let the rich, red sauce drip onto his coat, he sunk his teeth into the bread. He closed his eyes, and a look of pure pleasure came over his face, as if he had suddenly stepped out into the sunshine. “Ooh,” he sighed happily. “This brings back memories.”

Francesca herself could not have been more pleased. She watched him with interest, noting the easy, practiced manner in which he tore in two the other piece of bread and used it like a sponge to mop up the remaining sauce from the plate. He was, she could tell, a man who knew how to eat and savor the little things.

“Mmm, I love the pepperoni in the gravy,” he said, swallowing the last of the moist, warm bread.

“I only cut up a couple of small pieces,” chuckled Francesca. She eyed him more closely. “You know, for a Yankee, you have an educated taste in Italian food.”

Pace looked up at her and smiled, a twinkle coming to his eye. “Oh, I'm not so much of a Yankee as you might think,” he told her. “My mother was a pretty fair cook herself in her day, you know, my wife too. I always insisted on having my pasta with Sunday dinner.”

“It's not Sunday dinner without it,” opined Francesca, taking a seat across the table from him.

“I agree,” nodded Pace with a smile, though Francesca detected a hint of sadness in his voice, one she well recognized. She stole a poorly concealed glance at the wedding ring on his finger.

“Does your wife like to cook?” she asked.

“Well, she did,” he answered. “She passed away several years ago, so I'm afraid Sunday dinners haven't been as frequent as they once were.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” said Francesca, her suspicions confirmed. “Children?”

“No, we never had any,” he replied. “Now don't look sad. We had lots of nieces and nephews to spoil, so we always had fun. Of course, they're all grown up now and busy with families of their own. I still have a brother who I see now and then, but he moved out to Phoenix a few years ago, and my sister and her husband are down in Florida now, so I don't get to see them much either.” He paused and shook his head. “People move around so much these days.”

“Eh, it sounds like my family,” said Francesca, throwing her hands up. “Everybody's living all over creation.”

Pace nodded in agreement, and for a moment, the two sat in downcast silence, something that quite annoyed Francesca, for up till that moment, she had been thoroughly enjoying herself. This change in mood, she berated herself, was just what she deserved for letting her curiosity about his wife get the better of her. Now the two of them were feeling glum. She should have just kept her big mouth shut.

“What can you do?” she finally said with a sigh.

“Not much,” said Pace, absentmindedly fidgeting with his wedding ring. He looked up at her and gave a sad smile. “Funny,” he said, “but after all these years, I still wear this. I don't know why.”

“Ayyy, probably for the same reason I still wear mine since my husband died,” said Francesca, seeing her chance to set things right once more. “It just won't come off.”

“I know what you mean,” said Pace with a sympathetic sigh. “It's like a part of you, isn't it?”

“No, you don't understand,” said Francesca, tugging at her own ring. “What I mean is, it just won't come off. I can't get the stupid thing over my knuckle anymore.”

It was an old joke that Francesca had told a thousand times before, but it had the desired effect. Pace's eyes lit up once more, and he burst out laughing. Francesca could not help but join him. The two, though, quickly covered their mouths, so as not to awaken Loretta.

When he finally composed himself, Pace gave a contented chuckle, then dabbed his mouth with the napkin, before pushing himself away from the table. “Well, on that note, I suppose I should be getting back to work,” he announced, getting to his feet. He started to bring his plate to the sink, but Francesca snatched it from his hand.

“I'll take care of that,” she told him, putting it aside. “Come on, I'll walk you to the door.”

As the two walked to the front hall, the wind outside roared again, rattling the windows in the living room. Before opening the door, Pace turned to her.

“Well, thank you, Mrs.—”

“Francesca,” she said before he could finish.

“Well, thank you, Francesca,” he corrected himself. “That was as nice a lunch break as I've had in quite a while. Perhaps we could—”

“Fix that tie, will you?” Francesca interrupted him once again.

“I'm sorry?”

Francesca clicked her tongue and stepped closer to him. Reaching up, she quickly tightened his tie for him. “What kind of operation are you running that you'd go back to work looking all
sciacquat
' like that?” With a huff, she stepped back to assess her work. “Well, at least you didn't get any sauce on it,” she observed.

“So, there's hope for me yet,” said Pace with a smile as he buttoned up his coat. “Thank you, Francesca.”