Francesca's Kitchen (19 page)

“Don't mention it,” she replied, giving him only a hint of a smile in return. “Now go back to your office. I've got work of my own to do here, you know.”

Pace nodded to show that he understood. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Francesca,” he told her before stepping out the door. “Perhaps we'll see each other again sometime.”

“I'll talk to my boss,” said Francesca.

With that, she nodded good-bye and watched him descend the front steps to the walkway. She closed the door against the blustery wind and went to the window to make certain that he didn't slip and fall on his way to the car. When Pace finally drove away, Francesca gazed off into the distance for a time before looking down at the ring on her finger. She gave a little laugh and looked up toward the heavens.

“Don't worry, Leo,” she said. “The ring's still on good and tight.”

Then she went back to the kitchen to finish what she'd started.

T
hree forty-five that same afternoon found Francesca stationed at her usual post at the living room window, keeping watch for Penny and Will. By this time, the wind outside was howling for all it was worth. Bursts of sand and snow leaped into the air like ocean spray, while scraps of crumpled paper and other debris tumbled along the street. Next door, a pair of empty trash barrels lay on their sides, scratching and bumping against a pile of rock-hard snow at the end of the driveway. Another great gust of wind roared through, and the cover to one of the barrels rolled off across the street like a wayward hubcap. The cold, bleak scene and the roar of the wind sent a chill racing up Francesca's spine. From what she could see, there was no letup to winter in sight.

“Where's all this global warming they're always yapping about?” Francesca muttered.

Pulling the collar of her sweater tighter about her neck, she turned from the window and looked back to the kitchen, where the improvised peach crumb cake she had just baked in a cast-iron frying pan was cooling atop the stove. A pan of soup warmed on the burner beside it. The scent of the cake drifted pleasantly throughout the house, but like any baker, having been immersed in the warm, sweet aroma for some time now, Francesca noticed it little. Besides, at the moment, she was more preoccupied with watching to see that the children made it safely home.

Francesca stayed by the window, anxiously watching, until Penny and Will finally came into sight. Leaning into the teeth of the wild wind, they trod gamely up the street, every step a struggle. It seemed to Francesca that all of nature was pushing against them, trying all it could to thwart their progress toward home. As the two drew closer, Will suddenly slipped on a patch of ice and fell to his knees. The old woman was ready to throw on her coat and run out to help, but Penny quickly reached down and helped her brother back up. When at last they made it to the front walk, Francesca unlocked the door and hurried back to the kitchen.

“Oh, my God!” cried Penny when she and her brother clamored in through the door. “It is
so
windy!”

“I thought I was going to get blown back into the bus when I got off!” laughed Will.

As usual, the two dropped their backpacks on the spot and began to peel off their coats and hats.

“
Shush
!” called Francesca. “Keep it quiet. Your mother is upstairs, sleeping.”

“Oops, I forgot,” grimaced Penny, tossing her hat and gloves on the chair. She and her brother paused and looked up the stairs.

“Is she still really sick?” whispered Will.

“She'll be fine before you know it,” Francesca answered. “Now take off your boots and come into the kitchen to get warm.”

The smell of the cake was more than enough to entice the siblings into the kitchen. The two rushed in, each of them elbowing the other to get there first. Francesca couldn't help but smile when she saw their rosy red cheeks and wide, expectant eyes. Upon entering the kitchen, Penny still held back just a bit, but her brother came right up to Francesca to get a look at what she had prepared for them.

“What did you make this time?” he asked eagerly, leaning over to take a peek at the cake.

“Yeah, it really smells good,” added Penny, drawing a little closer.

“Oh, this?” replied Francesca nonchalantly. “It's just a little something I decided to bake this afternoon to pass the time.”

Without another word, Francesca took a spatula and carefully slid it around the perimeter of the cake to loosen it from the pan. Then she covered the pan with a plate and casually flipped the whole thing over, much to the chagrin of the two children, who watched in horror, certain that the precious treat would end up on the floor. Francesca, however, was a practiced hand at this maneuver. She lifted the pan and set the plate on the counter. Perhaps two inches thick, the simple cake had retained its perfect circular shape. Better still, the peaches and brown sugar that had been on the bottom of the pan had caramelized into a nice golden brown glaze across the cake's new top. Though not quite up to her usual baking standards, the sight of it made even her own mouth water.

“Do we get to have a taste?” said Will hopefully.

“That depends,” answered Francesca, shooting them a glance.

“Oh, no,” groaned Penny. “What do we have to do this time?”

“Your bedrooms,” Francesca told her. “They're a disgrace. How do you expect your mother to keep this house nice and clean if you two won't even pick up after yourselves in your own bedrooms?”

“But—” Penny began to protest.

“Fifteen minutes,” said Francesca, cutting her short. “That's all you have to do today. That's not asking much, but at least you'll make a little bit of a dent.”

“Right now?” said Will glumly.

“No,” said Francesca, turning her attention to the soup warming up in the pan. “First you sit at the table and have some soup to warm you up. You both must be frozen like ice cubes.”

Francesca filled two mugs, set them on the table, and gave each of the children a spoon.

“Don't you want to have some?” said Will, before gulping down a mouthful.

“No, that's just for you two and your mom,” Francesca answered. “So eat up.”

“But it's really good,” said Penny after taking a taste. “Did you make it?”

“Nope,” Francesca shook her head. “That came from a restaurant, but I'll make you a nice soup of my own someday.” She sat down at the table with them. “So, tell me about your day at school.”

“Numbskull lost his math book,” said Penny first.

“And
she's
in love with Jason Maloney,” countered her brother.

“Shut your mouth! You don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Do so—”

“Ayyy!” exclaimed Francesca, throwing up her hands to silence them. “What do you think this is? Congress? All I wanted was to know how school went, not to start a debate.”

“She started it,” muttered Will.

“You're right, she did,” agreed Francesca, quieting both of them with her glare. “But what's this about your losing your math book?”

“I didn't lose it,” protested the boy. “I just can't find it.”

“What's the difference?” his sister chimed in.

“Quiet, you,” warned Francesca. “This is a serious matter. Are you getting straight As, by the way?”

“Not exactly,” admitted Penny.

“In that case, forget about the boys and pay attention to your schoolwork,” Francesca told her with a steely gaze that made the young girl sink lower on the chair. Then, turning back to Will, “Now, last I remember, it sounded like you weren't doing so well in math. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “And I've got a test tomorrow.”

“And how are you going to study for it without your book?”

The boy could only shrug in response.

“You've looked everywhere?”

He gave a discouraged nod in reply.

“Okay,” said Francesca, letting out a long sigh of her own and a click of her tongue. “Well, we'll just have to see what we can do. Lucky for you, I'm pretty good with arithmetic, so later on, before I go home, we'll sit at the table, and you can show me what kind of work you've been doing in class. I bet we can get you up to speed for your test. Before that, though, you should go up to your bedroom and, while you're straightening up, see if maybe you didn't lose your book somewhere in that mess. If it's not there, or someplace else in the house, then you'll just have to say a prayer to Saint Anthony.”

“To who?” the two asked in unison.

“Saint Anthony,” said Francesca, surprised at the curious looks on their faces. “Don't you know who Saint Anthony is?”

“Never heard of him,” shrugged Penny.

“Oh, Saint Anthony's a good saint,” Francesca explained. “They're all good, of course, but he's the one to pray to when you lose something. Works for me every time. I remember once when I lost a beautiful brooch that I liked to wear on my coat. I searched the house for days, but I couldn't find it anywhere, so at last I gave up and just said a prayer to Saint Anthony. The very next morning, just as I was getting ready to go out of the house, I happened to reach into my coat pocket and there it was. Somehow or other, it must have fallen off the outside of the coat and straight into the pocket the last time I hung it up. Now some people would say it was just a coincidence that I found it that way, but I know it was Saint Anthony. The thing you have to remember, of course, is that if he helps you to find something, like your book, then you have to pay him back by putting some money in the poor box the next time you go to mass.”

“Mass?” said Will. “You mean like going to church?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered.

“But we don't go to church,” said Penny.

This admission really should have come as no surprise to Francesca. She knew from the beginning that their parents had never married, so it stood to reason that they probably were not churchgoers. Just the same, as she looked from one child to the other, the two of them gazing back with innocent eyes that pierced right through her, she felt her heart ache. Francesca had known this little family for only a very short time, and there was much, she understood, that was absent from the lives of these children, but somehow, this revelation truly saddened her.

“Oh, I see,” Francesca said thoughtfully after a moment's contemplation. Then, forcing a smile, “Well, I still think it's a good idea for you to pray to him anyway. It can't hurt, right? Now finish up that soup and go get started on your rooms. Then after dinner, you can both have a piece of cake.”

Later, when the two children headed upstairs to their rooms, Francesca took the mugs they had left on the table and rinsed them in the sink. Then she took out a pan to use later to warm up the meat and vegetables Mr. Pace had brought to the house earlier in the day. Dinner, thanks to him, would be easy, but as Francesca thought about Loretta and her children, she could not help but feel that there was even more work to be done here than she had realized.

T
he next day, Francesca was sitting at the kitchen table, matching up socks from a basket of colored clothes she had just washed and dried, when Loretta came downstairs. It was midafternoon, well after lunchtime. Loretta had been asleep when she had first come to the house, so Francesca had gone about her business quietly. She had hoped to have all the clothes folded and ready to be put away before Loretta awoke. Now, though, the young woman stood in the doorway, shaking her head in mild annoyance at Francesca.

“Don't say it,” Francesca told her before she could open her mouth. “I saw the clothes starting to pile up, and with you in bed sick, no one else was going to wash them, so I just decided to do a quick load myself, to pass the time before the children came home.”

“But Mrs…I mean, Francesca,” began Loretta. “It's really too much of me to ask you—”

“You didn't ask,” Francesca cut in. “I just did it, because it needed to be done. Now if you're feeling guilty about it, just sit down and help me fold the rest of this.”

Loretta gave an exasperated sigh and took a seat at the table. Reaching into the basket, she pulled out one of Will's shirts, laid it across her lap, and began to fold it.

“You're looking a little better,” observed Francesca as she continued matching up the socks. “Not so green in the gills.”

It was true. Though still a bit drawn, Loretta's face had regained some of its color and the dark circles beneath her eyes were retreating. The assertive way in which she reached into the basket and tugged out another shirt when she was done folding the first was further evidence that she had turned the corner and was starting to regain a bit of her energy.

“I'm still a little woozy,” nodded Loretta, “but my fever's down, so I think I'm going to survive. Two days ago, I wasn't so sure.”

“Ayyy, that's the way it always is when you first get sick like that,” chuckled Francesca. “You think it's the end of the world. But these things pass.”

Loretta looked down at herself and considered the baggy gray sweatshirt and the equally baggy pajama bottoms she had been wearing for at least the past twenty-four hours. “I suppose I should get myself cleaned up and put on some decent clothes before the kids come home,” she mused.

“No, no. Don't worry about that,” Francesca told her. “Just stay nice and comfortable if you feel like it. If you get yourself all dressed up, you'll be tempted to do too much too soon, and then you'll just end up making yourself feel worse again. You know, just because you're starting to feel better doesn't mean that you're not still sick.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Loretta. She sat up straighter and rolled her head gently about. “I am still a little achy, but just the same, I feel like I should be getting back to work.”

“That's probably what someone else who was sick at your office thought,” Francesca pointed out. “Whoever it was came back to work too soon and spread it around. That's why you're sick now. Trust me, you're not doing anyone any favors by hurrying back to the office before you're better. Take an extra day to be sure, and don't worry about it. I'm sure your boss Mister Pace would tell you the same thing.”

Loretta gave her a curious look. “How did you know his name was Mister Pace?” she asked.

“He came here yesterday while you were sleeping,” Francesca explained, to Loretta's obvious surprise. “He brought some nice soup and bread, and some meat and vegetables too. I had been planning to use the sauce I was making for dinner, but I gave the kids the food he brought instead. I didn't want it to go bad. Anyway, it was very nice of him, I thought.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Loretta. “I'll have to call him later to say thank-you. But it's so strange. I don't remember hearing anyone at all come to the house yesterday besides you. I must have been out like a light when he came in. You know, I ate that soup last night after you left, but I just assumed that you had made it. How long did he stay?”

“Oh, just a few minutes,” said Francesca. “He didn't want to disturb you, so he went on his way pretty quickly.”

“I suppose he must have,” said Loretta thoughtfully. “Funny how fast time goes by and how oblivious you are to everything when you're asleep.”

“That's what sleep is for,” replied Francesca. “It makes you forget about everything so that your mind and body can rest. It's so important, but everybody tries to ignore it. It's like my daughters, who are always complaining that they feel so tired and blue. I try to tell them that they just need to turn the television off, stop watching those crazy shows with all these gruesome murders every night. Or if it's not murders, it's people going into the hospital because they're dying from some ghastly illness or because they got run over by a bus. How's a person supposed to have a good night's rest after watching all those horrible stories? And then they wonder why they wake up in the morning feeling like a wet rag. Forget the TV, and try going to bed an hour earlier, I tell them. They'd feel ten years younger in a week. But young people don't want to listen.”

Loretta smiled.

“I remember now that you told me once that you had two daughters,” she said. “Do they live in Rhode Island too?”

“Florida and Oregon,” Francesca replied ruefully.

“I see,” said Loretta. “Do you miss them, being so far away like that?”

“Only every minute of the day,” said Francesca. “That's how we old mothers are, you know.”

“I'm not sure if all of you are that way,” said Loretta, “at least not in my case.”

“No? Tell me, where does your mother live?”

“Upstate New York,” Loretta answered.

“That's still pretty far apart for a mother and daughter to be,” said Francesca. “Believe me, she misses you.”

“Well, I don't know about that…” said Loretta, her voice suddenly trailing away. She quickly turned her attention back to the basket and pulled out another shirt to fold.

Francesca eyed Loretta for a moment. She had been around long enough to know when someone was holding inside a story that needed telling. There was much she would like to know about the younger woman and her family, but till now, she had been reluctant to ask; it just didn't seem her place to do so. Now, though, as she watched Loretta dutifully folding the clothes, Francesca could not help feeling that an opportunity was presenting itself to her, one which might not come again any time soon. The question that now weighed on her mind was how best to take advantage of it. Pushing herself away from the table, she stood and looked down kindly at Loretta.

“What do you say to my putting some water in the kettle,” she offered, “and when we're done with the clothes, maybe you and I can have a little cup of tea? It will make you feel better—and then maybe I can let you try one of the pizzelle I made this morning.”

“I would love some tea,” admitted Loretta, “but to be quite honest, I don't know if I have any on hand.”

“Oh, you do,” Francesca assured her. “I found a box yesterday when I was rummaging around through your cupboards while you were asleep. Sorry about that—I really should have asked first—but I didn't want to bother you.”

“Oh, please,” huffed Loretta with a dismissive wave. “Last night I had a piece of that cake you made. It was unbelievable.”

“Then tea sounds good?”

Loretta hesitated for a moment, looking as though she were mulling over something about which she couldn't quite make up her mind. At last, though, she simply smiled at Francesca and nodded. “Yes, tea sounds very nice,” she said. “But tell me, what in the world are pizzelle?”

“You'll see,” laughed Francesca, “you'll see.”



The afternoon sun was streaming through the front window, casting a slanted parallelogram of light across the floor, when Loretta came into the living room. She had insisted that, despite her infirmity, she at least be allowed to carry in the tray holding the pot of tea, cups, and saucers. She set the tray atop the coffee table, while Francesca brought in the plate of pizzelle. The two women sat on the couch, and Loretta filled their cups with tea.

“This is a pizzella,” said Francesca, handing Loretta one of the round, waferlike cookies. “You see, it's sort of like a little pizza. You make them like waffles, except these are thinner.”

Loretta took the pizzella, noting with pleasure its golden brown color and delicate snowflake design. “It's almost too pretty to eat,” she said. “And it smells wonderful. What's in it?”

“That's the anise,” Francesca told her, taking one of the pizzelle for herself. “I've always loved that smell too.”

As they nibbled on the pizzelle and sipped their tea, the women began to chat amiably about the incessant cold weather they had been experiencing that winter. Soon they were taking turns complaining about the icy roads, the appalling cost of keeping the house warm, and, of course, of the perils of the flu season. It wasn't long, though, before the conversation brought them back around to the subject of their families.

“You were telling me about your daughters before,” said Loretta. “How did they end up so far away?”

“Work,” lamented Francesca. “You know how it is. Everybody thinks you have to go where there's more money so you can have a better life. Nobody ever stops to think that part of having a better life is being close to your family. My daughters' husbands both had good jobs right here in Rhode Island, but then one of them got a big promotion, and the other decided to go into business out of state, and before you knew it, they were moving all over the country. They had to go where the best opportunities were while they had the chance. At least, that's what they've always told me. But who knows, maybe they were just trying to see how far away from me they could get. I can be a real pain sometimes.”

“I'm sure that's not it at all,” laughed Loretta.

“Eh, you'd be surprised,” she said.

“Well, from what you've told me, at least it seems like your children are all happily married,” said Loretta.

“Ayyy, not all,” sighed Francesca. “My daughters are doing fine. But my son hasn't settled down yet. That one's still trying to sort out his life. Don't get me wrong, he's a good boy. Smart. Hardworking.”

“What's the problem?” asked Loretta.

Francesca hesitated for a moment. “Well, I'll tell you,” she said at last. “He was all set to get married a few years ago. To a nice girl, or so, at least, I thought. Everybody seemed happy. Then three weeks before the wedding, right out of the blue, the whole thing got called off.”

“What happened?”

“You know, my son would never say a word about it, no matter how hard I tried to pry it out of him. But then two months later, I read in the paper that his fiancée had married some other guy. Six months after
that
, I see the birth announcement for their first child.” Francesca paused for effect, then gave a shrug. “So, you do the math.”

“Oops,” said Loretta with a pained expression.

“Oops is right,” Francesca went on. “Anyway, to this day, he still won't talk about it. It's sad.” Taking a deep breath, she let it out and shook her head. “But, life goes on. He'll find his way. So tell me about you. What's your story? How did all…all this happen?”

“You mean, how did a nice girl like me end up raising two children all by herself?”

Francesca shrugged and nodded.

“Well, it's a long story,” said Loretta.

“There's plenty of tea left,” noted the older woman.

Loretta set her cup on its saucer and looked blankly toward the window. “Where would I even begin?” she wondered aloud.

“Why don't you tell me about your mother?” Francesca suggested.

“Ah, my mother,” Loretta began with an ironic smile. “Well, I guess things started to fall apart for Mom and me after my father died. I was a teenager, and I was really close to him. Mom loved him too. I knew that. But two years later, when I was in high school, she got remarried, and I couldn't stand her husband.”

“What was wrong with him? Was he abusive?”

“No, of course not,” said Loretta with a laugh. “He was as sweet as could be.”

“Then what was the problem?”

“Nothing,” admitted Loretta with a sad shake of her head. “Nothing at all, really. He just wasn't my father, you see, and I guess I couldn't deal with my mother just moving on with her life the way she did.”

“Life has a way of dragging you forward, even when you want to stay put,” said Francesca.

“I guess,” sighed Loretta. “Anyway, I went through this strange rebellious phase and pretty much made life miserable for everybody at home. I couldn't seem to get along with anybody. It was always one argument after the other, if not with my mother, then with my brothers or my stepfather. Then I stopped going to church, and that drove my mother nuts, because she's an old-fashioned Catholic—which I guess is why I did it. I at least managed to keep my grades up in school, so it was probably a big relief for them all when I finally went off to college. And that's where I met David.”

“Penny and Will's father?”

“That's right,” said Loretta. “David was two years ahead of me when we met. He was young and good-looking, and full of philosophy and all these avant-garde theories about society and relationships and the uselessness of organized religion. I thought he was brilliant. Marriage, of course, was an anachronism to David, which, looking back, was probably a result of his coming from a broken home. But he had me convinced that it was enough for two people to just love one another, without all those useless formalities that society was always trying to impose on people. So, when he graduated, I quit school to go with him, thinking I could always go back someday to finish.”