"
Your father, he wasn't old and crippled, Angela," Sadie was saying. "Ten years younger than his brother, my Pasquale was, and very healthy. Even if I tell him sometimes he's a hippo...what's that word, Little Pat?" She looked to her son.
"Hypochondriac, Ma," Pat supplied.
"Hypochondriac, what with those pills and vitamins he took. And a real romantic, your father.
"
Pat laughed.
"
That’s not what you said last month when he gave you new pots and pans for your birthday.
"
Sadie waved him off and turned to Simon. "My children, they don’t like to hear this. But I’ll tell you, Simon, that man was lusty and virile-like, until the day he died. Liked to have worn me out the night before.
"
Simon could hazard a guess what
one
of the pills Pasquale had taken was.
"Soup?
"
Sadie asked, oblivious to the horrified expressions on her children's faces.
"Italian Wedding Soup, we call it." Sadie took the lid off a large tureen. "Chicken, you know, with escarole. My sister Marie made this one. When I make it, Angela she makes me beautiful itsy-bitsy meatballs to add and then makes sauce, too, so she can use up the rest of the meat. Waste not, want not, my Angela says. Even puts in the heel of the pepperoni, if we have it.
"But, Marie, she’s lazy. Just pinches off little bits of chopped meat and drops them in. But it's okay.
"
She wrinkled her nose, and started passing bowls of the inferior soup down the table.
"
But God-bless my sister for thinking of us, and God-bless that we are here to eat it.
"
She paused just long enough to make the sign of the cross, and then kept right on ladling.
"
Now you have some wine. The white used to be my Pasquale’s favorite, but the red, she’s good, too.
"
Simon glanced over at Jake. She was already working on her soup as Pat poured the Firenzes' trademark homemade wine, sort of the Wild Turkey of wines. God knew what proof the stuff was.
"Red or white?" Pat asked. "Tudy made the red, Angela made the white." He held up an old Coke bottle in one hand and what looked like a recycled champagne bottle in the other.
Simon opted for red--the Coke bottle--as Angela passed him a bowl of soup.
"
There is still no sign of Ray?
"
Her color was high--a spot of red on each cheek, like the emotion had pushed to the surface only there.
"
I checked with the Coast Guard on the way over,
"
he answered.
"
Still nothing. I’m sorry.
"
She nodded and looked down at the table.
Sadie turned to Jake, who was wolfing down her soup.
"
My husband, when he started this business, it was only him and Tudy and my son. It was too much, too much, especially with all the paperwork. Pasquale’s heart wasn’t in those things. He was an artist, my husband.
"
When Ray, Tudy’s son, was old enough, he started helping with the books."
"Where is Tudy?" Simon asked. The old man was family, in heart if not by blood. Simon was surprised he wasn't there.
"He's home, taking care of Mary Ann, his wife. She's not Italian," she said to Jake, as if that explained why the woman needed taking care of.
"
After that,
"
Sadie continued,
"
Ray and Angela, they married, and now Ray is a partner just like my son. When my Pasquale is gone, Ray and Pat will take over.
"
Sadie beamed at her daughter, as if forgetting her own husband was dead and that Ray Guida had been missing in Lake Michigan for nearly forty-eight hours. Next to Simon, Angela looked down at her hands. The rest of the table was silent.
"Antipasto?" Sadie asked.
*****
Sadie had a talent for segues, Jake thought.
Conversation about Pasquale's funeral arrangements:
"Cremated. My Pasquale wanted no dirt or worms or such. Stuffed shells?"
Discussion of Ray's fate:
"That water, she's so dirty, so cold. More chicken?"
The phone rang just as they were finishing a dessert of sublime home-made chocolate éclairs, filled with what Angela called yellow cream.
Pat went to answer the phone, suggesting Simon take his coffee out to the porch. That left Jake alone with Sadie, Angela, and the dishes.
Jake would have given anything to be out on the porch with the men. Even if Simon had scarcely been able to take his eyes off Angela during dinner. But then who could blame him? Angela was gorgeous,
and
she was a lady in distress. Besides, what business was it of Jake's? She'd turned Simon down flat just last night.
Pat slammed down the phone and stomped out the door. Maybe being a lady in the kitchen
did
trump being a man on the porch.
Sadie shook her head sadly. "Another show, she's down the drain," she said, as she set aside a cast iron pasta pot and then proceeded to fill the sink with hot soapy water.
"We've had calls all afternoon," Angela explained to Jake as the two of them cleared the table. "Our clients canceling their displays."
"I'm so sorry," Jake said, and she was. First, she had aired the close-up of Pasquale's death, and now she'd aided and abetted Martha's reports which were painting the Firenzes as reckless. And that didn't even include the secret sin of being jealous of Angela. Yup, Jake was really racking up the points with the Big Guy.
Angela carried a stack of plates to the counter, Jake trailing behind with two wine glasses in one hand and the empty white wine bottle in the other.
"My father is dead, and all is in shambles," Angela said, as she set down the plates. "Everything is ruined." Her long hair had swung forward to cover her face, but Jake could hear the tears in her voice.
"No," Sadie said, as she pushed her daughter’s hair back behind her ears. "It's not ruined, but we need to be strong. We had your father for a long time, and we must pray God and thank Him for that. Ray, for not as long. But if he is gone, we need to be thankful for the time we had with him, too."
Angela nodded, still looking down at the plates in front of her. Jake set the glasses and bottle quietly on the counter next to her, feeling like an intruder. Over Angela's shoulder, she could see Simon through the window, lounging on the porch.
Sadie took the corner of her apron and wiped away Angela's tears. "Now," she said, "pulling off the thick green rubber band that circled her wrist like a bracelet, "get that hair off your face before you get it in the dish water."
Angela laughed, and Jake realized that there was a method to Sadie's segue madness. "My mother has been saying that to me since I was four years old." Angela held up the rubber band Sadie had handed her. "Do you see what it says?"
Jake looked closer. "Broccoli?"
Angela pulled back her hair and wrapped the band around it. "At school the girls would laugh at me because one day I would wear 'Asparagus,' the next day 'Broccoli.'"
"But they know you ate good," Sadie said, shaking her finger and laughing.
"Yes, Mamma, they did." Angela kissed her mother on the forehead.
"That
was
a wonderful meal," Jake said, wanting to contribute something.
Sadie looked her up and down. "You're a good eater, for somebody so skinny. I remember when you were on the TV. You called yourself 'Wendy Jacobs,' and you were so sick. Thank the Lord," she crossed herself again, "you're here to eat. Isn't that right, Angela, didn't I say 'that newsgirl, she's not long for this world.'?"
"Mamma, please." Angela gave Jake a sympathetic smile. Her eyes flicked down, but she seemed to catch herself and looked Jake square in the eye. "You are very lucky, you know."
Jake started to come back with a canned response, but Angela continued. "I must be very careful about what I eat."
Jake, grateful for the artful steering of the subject, smiled back. "I swim every day, which seems to help."
"See?" said Sadie, waving a soapy dishrag at her daughter. "You should start that running again. Now, Simon," she said, turning the cloth in Jake's direction, "I bet he likes a girl with a little muscle, isn't that right?"
Jake felt a blush rise. "I, we..."
Angela saved her again. "Please, Mamma, you're embarrassing her. Would you mind drying?" she asked Jake, handing her a dish towel. "Then I will put away, since I know the kitchen."
Jake took the towel from her.
"My daughter plays softball, and she ran tracks in school," said Sadie proudly. "My husband, he would say 'my Angela, she runs like an angel with wings on her feet.'"
Sadie rinsed the first plate, set it in the dish drainer, and picked up another. "'Pasquale,' I told him, 'that's the FTD flower man who has wings on his feet. Angels, they have wings on their backs.'"
And with that, Sadie Firenze finally broke into tears, then near hysteria.
*****
After Pat hung up the phone, he picked up his coffee cup and stood for a second.
Jesus, what were they going to do? They already had lost three shows for the Fourth, and now a fourth was threatening to pull out. Small community park shows, for sure, but each of them worth fifteen to twenty thousand bucks. He walked out onto the deck with his coffee and sank onto the timbered porch glider.
Simon was straddling the hammock. "I assume that wasn't good news."
Pat studied his coffee cup. "Prairie Pleasant wants to cancel their show on the Fourth."
"Don't they have a contract?"
Pat shrugged. "Sure, and I'm in my rights to demand payment whether we do the show or not. Problem is, then I can kiss the display goodbye for next year, and the one after that, and the one after that. I'm hoping when this all blows over..."
He stopped and looked up from his coffee cup. "But maybe that's stupid. Maybe it'll never blow over."
Sadie's laughter floated out to them from the kitchen. "Your mother seems to be holding together pretty well," Simon observed.
"
That’s good, at least.
"
"My mother is manic," Pat said. "One moment she's cooking for a hundred, the next she's sobbing so hard she can barely stand."
"
Has she seen a doctor?"
Pat shrugged. "She has a GP, who’s nearly 80. My dad never believed in doctors..." He let it trail off.
Simon slid his coffee cup out from under the hammock and took a drink. An owl hooted in the woods beyond the house.
"
What aren't you telling me, Pat?"
Pat wondered what he‘d done to give himself away. "What do you mean?"
"There was something when we talked on the phone this morning. Something that bothered you. What was it?"
The owl hooted again. The sound reminded Pat of the old "Give a hoot, don't pollute
"
commercials. He and his dad would watch Saturday morning cartoons in their pajamas, big bowls of Cheerios on TV trays in front of them. Now his father was gone, but Pat still felt like the little kid who watched THE JETSONS and dreamed of taking over his father's company some day. Now that he had his wish, would there be anything left to take over?
Pat hadn’t answered Simon, and the ATF agent turned and followed his gaze. The owl was silhouetted in the very top of one of the trees. Beyond it, they could see the bare wood of the barn glistening in the moonlight.
Simon, who had been about to set down the coffee cup, stopped mid-air. "Are you sandblasting the old paint off the outbuildings?"
Pat nodded. He knew that Simon, who had done his share of remodeling, would know that silica sand--one of the substances Simon had mentioned on the phone earlier that day--was used in sand-blasting.
"Of course,
"
Simon confirmed. "I noticed the silica sand shining on the floor of your father’s barge that night, but I assumed it was mixed with the sand in the sandbags used to stabilize the shells."
Pat was still looking toward the woods. "We use coarse sand in the sandbags, the same stuff we use on the roads and driveways here in the winter. We bought the silica sand for the sandblasting. There are a couple of bags in the storeroom."
The big bird took off, wings pounding the air, and struggled to gain altitude. Woodsy Owl, that was the name of the
"
Give a Hoot
"
owl.
"Can you tell what’s missing?" Simon asked, finally setting the cup down.
"Nah. You'd only need two pounds out of a fifty-pound bag. Who would notice?"
"How can you be certain someone didn't make a mistake and use it in the sandbags?"
Pat turned to him as the owl hovered on the air currents overhead. "I made up those sandbags myself, Simon. They did
not
have silica sand in them."