The Supreme Macaroni Company (29 page)

“Is it bad news?”

“No—Dominic told me something, and I thought it was important.”

“What is it?”

“He remembered something that Gianluca said to him.”

“Was it about Alfie?”

“No.”

“Me?”

“No. The house in Santa Margherita.”

When I heard the name of the town, it was a stab to my heart. It represented my husband’s greatest sacrifice, and frankly, even with visits to grief counselors and psychics and pouring my heart out to Gabriel, I hadn’t cracked that one yet. It still haunted me.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you all over again,” Gram said.

“What did you want to tell me?”

“Gianluca had Dominic cash out an account in Arezzo when you bought the factory. And when Gianluca sold the house, Dominic did the transfer. And Dominic knew how much Gianluca loved that house. And he also knew how much Gianluca loved Italy. So he was worried that his son was cutting ties where he shouldn’t. So he expressed his fears to his son. And Gianluca told him, ‘You know, Papa, I have this house that was mine before I met Valentina. And we live in a house in Greenwich Village that belongs to the family, and neither of these belong to us. Someday, when Valentina is ready, we’ll buy a house together, one that will be ours.’ ”

“But I didn’t care about a house! I wanted him!”

“Don’t you see? He didn’t care either. He was happy with you. So stop mourning all these things that you think brought him sadness, because the fact is, you only brought him joy, even when you thought you weren’t.”

“Did I? I really didn’t understand what it meant to be married. He brought me to the house, and I didn’t feel it was mine. I was still drawing lines in the relationship like angles on pattern paper. But the whole time, we were one.”

“Yes, you were.”

“But I didn’t know it. He knew it. And I didn’t.”

I began to cry, and Gram put her arms around me. “Do you think he would’ve ever told me about the house?”

Gram smiled. “He knew he would have to someday, but he wasn’t worried. He knew you’d understand.”

Gram and I went down the stairs to join the Christmas Day party. It was like walking into FAO Schwarz with a killer Italian buffet. Aunt Feen was guzzling a Fuzzy Navel while Alfred brought the pork roast to the table and my mother gathered the troops to sit. We took our places as Gabriel hoisted Alfie into her high chair.

Aunt Feen unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “I hate when Christmas falls on a weekday. They do a schlock episode of
General Hospital
where they sing Christmas carols. I like blood and guts on my soaps, not warm and fuzzies.”

Mom handed out the devotion cards, and we recited the prayer of Saint Francis. It’s my mother’s way of remembering Gianluca without saying his name.

“Jaclyn, go get that package I brought.”

Jaclyn, busy wrangling the kids, shot Aunt Feen a look to kill.

“It’s a gift for the entire family,” Feen barked.

Jaclyn brought a large, square package wrapped in brown paper to the table.

“I had something made for you, Valentine.”

“Oh, Aunt Feen, you shouldn’t have.”

“But I already did, so say thank you.”

I ripped into the package. It was a painting. A painting of my family from Christmas Eve, the night Gianluca asked me to marry him. It was in a gold-leaf frame, very ornate, museum-quality even.

“I was at the beauty shop, and I was reading about these people in Denmark who make paintings from photographs. So I sent off for it.” Aunt Feen lifted her bifocals and squinted at the painting. “I think it’s pretty good.”

“Not since John Singer Sargent . . . ,” Gabriel said.

“I don’t know about him. I just sent the family picture.” Feen shrugged.

I picked Gianluca out in the middle of the family. My head was resting on his shoulder, and instead of dark brown hair, for whatever reason my hair was red, and it looked like I was wearing a wig. But it didn’t matter. They had captured Gianluca perfectly. He was laughing with that wide-open smile of his.

“We don’t look like ourselves—are you sure this is our family?” Mom asked.

“What the hell are you talking about? Don’t you listen? I said I sent the photo.”

“Then why do I look like Tony Bennett?” my father wanted to know.

“I don’t know. Maybe you look like him.”

“That’s not me,” my father insisted.

“Mom looks like Cher,” Jaclyn said.

“When she was with Sonny, or now?” Mom wondered, as she squinted at the painting.

“We look like Destiny’s Child, Tess. Look at us. They painted them over our faces.”

“I’m telling you, somebody was pulling your leg with this thing, Auntie,” Dad insisted.

“I like it,” Feen said defensively. “What do you want from a bunch of Swedes?”

“I thought you said the artist was from Denmark,” Tom piped up.

“It’s one of those cold salmon-eating countries. The artist interpreted our family, and this is what he saw,” Feen said defensively.

“I look like Yogi Bear,” Charlie said.

“What the hell do you want? You look like him in real life.”

Gram began to laugh at the absurdity of the bad painting. She couldn’t stop. Soon, we were all laughing until we cried. Everyone of course, except Aunt Feen, who stood by the artist’s vision, no matter how flawed it had been.

I
don’t know exactly when I began to sleep on Gianluca’s side of the bed. Like any routine I fell into after my husband died, it seemed to happen naturally. The two years we were married seem like twenty on some days, and two seconds on others. The dreams that come when I sleep happen in and around water, they fold into my memories seamlessly. Sometimes I wake up and feel that I traveled through the night. I remember being pregnant with Alfie and swimming in the lake, just the three of us. I can’t wait for Alfie to grow up so I can tell her the story and take her to the place where her father held me.

A widow relives her time with her husband over and over again, searching for clues and hoping to find some small proof that the love they shared here on earth was eternal. I haven’t had much luck with that, but what I do have, the things I do remember, those moments, have a funny way of stringing together and sustaining me.

In my mind, I swim with Gianluca in the Blue Grotto. This was long before I loved him and he loved me. It was when we were new friends and had just met. It’s like I’m there again. I feel the veins of coral on the cold rock walls and the warm blue water. I see the beams of pure white light as they cut through the rocks and dance on the surface of the water. I shiver at the touch of Gianluca’s arms around me as we float in the deep. I even remember being afraid of the depths and then suddenly courageous and brazen as long as he stayed close.

I have decided that love is only real and true when it makes you feel safe. I am alone now, and without him, everything seems uncertain. It is then that I put on the necklace he gave me on our wedding day, and I look in the mirror and face our family history as it shimmers in the glass. It feels substantial, not just because the coral and the pearls are real, but because Gianluca gave it to me. The family heirloom connects me to the memory of him. I can touch it. It is proof that we married, that he loved me, and that for twenty-two months, he was mine.

Gianluca left me with coral and pearls and diamonds, but they were the least of his gifts to me. I have him in Alfie, who has his humor and blue eyes. I have the factory, which he bought and paid for with a house he loved but not as much as he loved me. He gave it up so I might have the Supreme Macaroni Company.

But it’s the dream that keeps me connected to him.

I imagine returning to swim in the Blue Grotto, and somehow, I know that when I do, I’ll find him there.

Acknowledgments

T
his book is dedicated to the memory of Violet Stampone Peters Ruggiero, my beloved cousin. Violet was born on May 18, 1926, at home on Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto, Pennsylvania, eventually marrying and moving across the street where she raised her family. She married Joseph Peters in 1951, had their daughter, Ann Carol, and was expecting their son, Joe, when her husband died suddenly of a heart attack. They had been married a little over a year. Eight years later she married Dominic “Bake” Ruggiero, and had Dominic, Connie Rose, and Phillip. Her highest dream was for the children from her first marriage to feel as one with the children of her second. She blended the families beautifully.

Violet worked as a button sewer in a blouse mill that was walking distance from her house. She loved her job, family, weekly Bingo, cleaning her house, and a stiff Manhattan cocktail before dinner. When I think of the people I most admire, Violet tops the list. She worked hard, laughed a lot, and made a big dish of macaroni every Sunday. She was an Italian girl who loved to be home. She once told me she didn’t understand people who traveled. “Everything you need is right here,” she said.

I am grateful to the brilliant team at HarperCollins, led by Brian Murray and Michael Morrison. Jonathan Burnham, my editor and publisher, has exquisite taste, a big heart, and a keen eye for detail. I believe every word he says because he says them with a British accent. Maya Ziv is his excellent right arm, and a treasure.

The marketing and publicity teams are amazing, thank you Kathy Schneider, Tina Andreadis, Kate D’Esmond, Leah Wasielewski, and Mark Ferguson. The novels are artfully designed by Leah Carlson-Stanisic, Robin Bilardello, and Eric Levy. Virginia Stanley, the queen of libraries is one in a million. Our sales reps are the best: Michael Morris, Josh Marwell, Andrea Rosen, Mary Beth Thomas, Doug Jones, Kathryn Walker, Kristin Bowers, Brian Grogan, Erin Gorham, Lillie Walsh, Rachel Levenberg, and Diane Jackson. Love our paperback team: Amy Baker, Mary Sasso, and Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee.

Much heavy lifting at Harper’s is done by the great Laura Brown, Katie O’Callaghan, Mary Ann Petyak, Stephanie Selah, Tom Hopke Jr., Kathryn Noonan, Annie Mazes, Milan Bozic, Feeza Mumtaz, Douglas Johnson, Eric Lovaas, Frank Albanese, Megan Hodnett, David Wolfson, and Earlene Thomas. You’re a constellation of stars!

At William Morris Endeavor, I am indebted to Suzanne Gluck, Tracy Fisher, Cathryn Summerhayes, Nancy Josephson, Laurie Pozmantier, Michelle Feehan, Eve Attermann, Samantha Frank, Anna DeRoy, Becky Thomas, Alicia Gordon, Anna Graham Taylor, James Munro, Ellen Sushko, and Claudia Webb. Look no further for excellence.

In movieland, thank you Donna Gigliotti, Richard Thompson, Michael Pitt, and Lou Pitt. Larry Sanitsky at the Sanitsky Company gets the call at 2:00 a.m., always answers, and is forever wise, funny, and brilliant. At Simon & Schuster UK, my love and thanks to Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, and Nigel Stoneman.

At the Glory of Everything Company, the fabulous team led by Allison Van Groesbeck and Laura Corrigan, our amazing interns: Joie Giordano, Kathryn Haemmerle, Jillian Fata, Michelle March, Diana Vlavianos, Jodi Imperato, Samantha Rowe (with extra love to Judith Gold!), Bri Kennedy, Dana Walsh, Kelly Meehan Doig, Emily Morrow, Amanda Rodrigues, Eleanor Fisher, Katie James, Emily Homonoff, Michelle March, Diana E. Vlavianos, Hannah Spratt, Erin Brady, and Daniela Cardinale. Thank you Antonia Trigiani for the gift shop and Mary Trigiani for your digital expertise. The translations from English to Italian were done by Professor Dorina Cerghino-Hewitt of San Jose State University’s Italian Department. Thank you Gina Casella and Nikki Padilla, who make our walking tours and tours abroad the best in the world!

My evermore love and thanks to Chris and Ed Muransky, the best team—anywhere they are, I want to be.

Gratitude and love to Doris Gluck, Mary Pipino, Tom Dyja, Liz Travis, Eamonn McChrystal, Diane and Dr. Armand Rigaux, Phil and Cindy Timp, Karen and Emmett Towey, Caz and Alex Rubin, Dagmara Domincyzk and Patrick Wilson, Dan and Robin Napoli, Sharon Ewing, Adina Pitt, Robin Kall Homonoff, Jennifer Kall D’Angelo, Eugenie Furniss, Philip Grenz, Christina Geist, Joyce Sharkey, Jack Hodgins, Jake and Jean Morrissey, Mary Murphy, Gail Berman, Debra McGuire, Cate Magennis Wyatt, Ian, Ryan and Nancy Bolmeier Fisher, Carol and Dominic Vechiarelli, Gloria Zalaznick, Jim and Mary Deese Hampton, Suzanne and Peter Walsh, Heather and Peter Rooney, and Aaron Hill and Susan Fales-Hill, Mary K. and John Wilson, Kate Benton Doughan and Jim Doughan, Ruth Pomerance, Joanna Patton and Bill Persky, Angelina Fiordellisi and Matt Williams, Michael La Hart and F. Todd Johnson, Richard and Dana Kirshenbaum, Hugh and Jody Friedman O’Neill, Nelle and John Fortenberry, Val Thomas and Henry Reisch (newlyweds), Karen Kehela and Ben Sherwood, Cara Stein and Barry Rosenfeld, Laura Monardo and Mario Natarelli, Rosalie Ciardullo, Dolores and Dr. Emil Pascarelli, Eleanor “Fitz” King and daughters Eileen, Ellen, and Patti, Sharon Hall and Todd Kessler, Aimee Bell and David Kamp, Mary Ellen Gallagher Gavin, Rosanne Cash and John Leventhal, Liz Welch Tirell, Rachel Cohen DeSario, Charles Randolph Wright, Constance Marks, Mario Cantone, Jerry Dixon, Marolyn and Hank Senay.

Nancy Ringham Smith, Sharon Watroba Burns, Dee Emmerson, Elaine Martinelli, Kitty Martinelli (Vi and the girls), Sally Davies, Michael “Mickey” Morrison, Sister Karol Jackowski, Jane Cline Higgins, Beth Vechiarelli Cooper (my Youngstown boss), Max and Robyn Westler, John Searles, Gina Vechiarelli (my Brooklyn boss), Barbara and Tom Sullivan, Brownie and Connie Polly, Catherine and John Brennan, Greg D’Alessandro, Jena and Charlie Corsello, Karen Fink, Beáta and Steven (the Warrior) Baker, Todd Doughty and Randy Losapio, Craig Fissé, Anemone and Steve Kaplan, Christina Avis Krauss and her Sonny, Joanne Curley Kerner, Veronica Kilcullen, Lisa Rykoski, Tara Fogarty, Eleanor Jones, Mary Ellinger, and Iva Lou Johnson.

There’s a special place in heaven for Michael Patrick King and a table at Bergdorf’s for Cynthia Rutledge Olson, Mary Testa, Wendy Luck, Elena Nachmanoff, and Dianne Festa.

My great-aunt Lavinia Stella Perin Spadoni, “Ziwinnia,” turned ninety-one this year. She deserves a parade, as she has always been a beautiful example for all of us who are lucky enough to be her grand-nieces and -nephews. On the cover of this book is an envelope that belonged to her mother, my great-grandmother Giuseppina Covre Perin. I inherited “Ziwinnia’s” talent for never throwing anything away. Observing “Ziwinnia” has made me a better aunt to my nieces and nephews, all of whom I adore.

Thank you to my brothers and sisters, their husbands and wives, and the mighty Stephensons.

I will be forever grateful to Ann Godoff for opening the door to my literary career, and for the gift of Lee Boudreaux, who made me a better writer.

Pat and Paul Vogelsang generously provided shelter during the storm as I finished this novel. I can never thank them enough for their love, generosity, and electricity. Thank you James Horvath and Fran Minnarik, as you were the key.

So many happy customers ate at the Legendary Guido’s Supreme Macaroni Company on Ninth Avenue in New York City. The Scarola family made good food and great memories, and inspired this title.

As I wrote this book, I lost some dear friends and family I would like to honor here. The world is not as beautiful without Carol Williams Wilson, Dolly Farino, Liane Revsin, Sue Pence, Marion Gigliotti LeDonne, Carmelina “Tiny” Roma Perin, and Mary Loyola Culhane Shaughnessy (mother of eight who made time for her book club and me). There are roses in heaven now, for sure.

Dr. Sidney Wallace was a healer, a painter, an amazing husband, father, and grandfather.

My lifelong friend Joe O’Brien, first of Scranton and then Manhattan, was the best brother and friend, and a fine actor who lit up the stage and screen with originality and passion.

Rafael Prieto was a gentle soul and as fine and loyal a friend as I have ever known.

Thank you Lucia and Tim for making our home the best place on earth. Finally, what nice Italian girl doesn’t thank her mother? Thank you, Mom, for everything you are and everything you taught me. I am so lucky fate sent me your way.