“What happened to the first?”
“She had most of his kids.”
“He kept both wives?”
“And a couple handmaids.” Lance winked.
She crossed her arms.
“The point is, even though Jacob screwed up, God knew his intentions were good.”
“As Antonia knows yours.”
Lance stopped strumming. “I’m talking about Jacob.”
“Are you?”
He settled into a strum and sang the soft ballad of a man who had made too many choices to turn back time.
————
Antonia watched Sofie take off her sweater and fold it over her arm, careful and quiet. She stood a moment with her fingertips against the base of her throat, held motionless by thoughts that would remain her own. Antonia never pressed her. Unlike Lance, who couldn’t bear an unshared thought, Sofie had learned to tuck hers in.
Then she glanced over. “Oh, Nonna, I thought you were sleeping.”
Sleeping, waking; it all seemed the same.
Sofie kissed her cheeks. She smelled of almonds. Her hair fell softly against Antonia’s face. Antonia reached up to stroke it, but her hand jerked uselessly. She had forgotten.
Sofie caught the palm in hers and brought it to her head, sliding the hand through the cascade of hair in the simple gesture that used to require no thought, no effort. “Can I help you to bed now?”
“I …’ll s … tay.” Sleeping by the window, the morning light would kiss her face when she awoke. How she missed the pure golden sunshine, the mist in the vines, the smell of soft earth and the sweetly pungent blossoms bursting with promise.
“What are you thinking, Nonna?”
Antonia fixed her focus on her granddaughter’s face. Sofie knew it would take too long to answer, yet she asked. Such a soft and gentle heart. “S … un … sh … ine.”
“Mmm.” Closing her eyes, Sofie rubbed cheeks with her. “It’s stormy tonight. But maybe it will blow over by morning.”
Stormy. Morning would dawn gray and wet. A dull street below; a heavy sky above. She could feel it in her bones. The storm inside her had spread, affecting all the world.
Sofie pulled a chenille throw from the sofa and draped it over her. “Sure you don’t want to lie down?”
Antonia shook her head. She must be vigilant, vigilant in the storm.
If trouble comes … trouble …
L
ance woke with a splitting headache. Dinner with the aunts last night had become an endurance test between their sage proverbs,
“No matter how hard you beat a donkey it will never turn into a racehorse,”
and Zia Dina’s homemade grappa, for which she seemed to think he had a steel stomach. No wonder Zio Benito’s liver had given out.
Lance pressed his palms to his temples and pulled himself up by the head. Then he sat long enough to recover before his bladder drove him to his feet. There was no being quiet for Rico and Chaz on one side and Rese on the other. His stream was powerful and sustained, and the relief almost made up for the throbbing in his head. Zia Dina must have it out for him.
He turned on the shower, stripped, and climbed over the side of the tub, pulling the curtain across. An hour or so under the water might clear his pores. He opened his mouth to the spray to get the fuzz off his tongue, then let the hot water beat against his teeth and gums. Seriously soaped and rinsed, he shut off the now tepid spray and toweled dry. Rese, thank God, had taken one sip of the killer brew and declined another. Zia would have been miffed and heartbroken if he’d done the same. It seemed he would recover though, and in Zia’s own words:
A tutto c’e rimedio, fuorche` alla morte
. There is a cure for everything except death.
He shaved, combed his hair, and studied the diamond in his ear, then switched it out with his gold hoop. It was a casual kind of day. Dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, he slipped out to the drizzly street and bought a macchiato strong enough to kill the last of the grappa. Technically that should have waited until after communion. So he’d confess it.
After leaving the church, he chatted with a dozen shop owners setting up for the day, picked up some fresh trout just driven up from the docks, truffles and capers, a crusty loaf of bread. Days like this he wondered why he ever left.
Chaz was into his morning devotions when he got back. There was no sound of Rico or Rese, so he set about preparing the trout and making the truffle and caper sauce. He set two of the fish aside for Nonna and Rico, then started the other three frying. Sometimes he enjoyed the limiting experience of two hot plates and skillets.
Gauging the time remaining on the food, Lance tapped Rese’s door. He tapped again, then opened and hung his head in. She raised up on one elbow, looking tousled and way too attractive.
“You’ll want to get up for this one,” he said.
She yawned, curling into herself, and he decided right there that if she turned down his third proposal he’d start planning his fourth.
“Five minutes.” He closed the door before joining her seemed a better idea. Breathing with difficulty, he went back to the kitchenette.
Chaz glanced up. “Lead us not into temptation.”
Lance turned the trout. “And deliver us from ourselves.”
Chaz grinned. “At least you know where the trouble starts.”
“It was my earliest cognitive thought.”
————
Fortified with panfried trout in its succulent sauce; warm, crisp bread that couldn’t have been baked but an hour before; and cool tomato slices sprinkled with fresh minced basil, Rese sighed. She’d never really thought of fish for breakfast, but told Lance, “I could get used to this.”
Chaz smiled. “Ah, but complacency is the root of ingratitude.”
She shook her head. “After what I’ve eaten in my life? No chance.” She looked at Lance. He’d had to teach her it was okay to have preferences, to enjoy a meal and express that. But it was a lesson she’d learned well.
“The eyes eat before the stomach,”
his aunt Anna had said when Dina set out the lasagna last night. She and Lance had laughed about the proverbs all the way home, but that one had been especially apt.
“Well.” Rese picked up her plate and stood. “I guess I better get to work.”
Lance raised his brows. “Work?”
“Your mother’s kitchen ceiling.” She purposely hadn’t told him since he would have taken it on himself.
“What about it?”
“It’s got a sag over the sink.”
“So?” He took her plate and stacked it with his.
“I think there’s a leak.”
Lance studied her face. “You told Momma something was wrong with her kitchen?”
“She knew. I just offered to fix it.”
“And she agreed?”
Rese raised her chin. “Why wouldn’t she?”
He opened his mouth and closed it, glanced at Chaz, then said, “It’s not her normal mode, that’s all.” He set the plates in the little sink.
Rese shrugged. “She seemed normal enough—once she finished posing me for the cha-cha.”
Lance smiled with his whole face. “Where’s that hidden camera when you need it?”
She frowned, but he took her hand and drew her close. “Need help with the ceiling?”
“You’re reading to Antonia.” And the sooner he’d seen her through this one last thing, the sooner they’d go home. Though it didn’t feel as imperative as it had. If it weren’t for the inn she could almost imagine …
Chaz brought his plate to the sink and said, “I can lend a hand.”
“Aren’t you working?”
“Not until tonight.”
“Okay.” Rese nodded. “If I’m right, there’s lathe and plaster up there, so it could be difficult getting through. I don’t want to disturb more of it than I have to.”
Chaz spread his hands. “Let’s go have a look.”
She glanced back at Lance, who seemed to feel left out, but it wasn’t her fault he had other people needing him. And for this, frankly, she didn’t.
The closet under the stairs had a surprisingly good selection of tools, many of them dated but still sound, the collection of a family who took care of their own problems. She hung the elastic-banded safety goggles around her neck. It was possible the ceiling was constructed with wallboard, since the thirties was the transitional period. But she’d guess otherwise.
Dressed in a turquoise fitted top and black capris, Doria let them in. Her hair was tied up in a wide band, and large silver hoops hung from her ears. How could a woman her age look so good in everything? “I have coffee cake in the oven. Do you like tea or decaf? We ran out of regular coffee this morning.”
Carrying the stepladder, Rese followed her to the kitchen. What could she say?
“I don’t want anything; I came to work”?
She pulled the yellowed safety goggles onto her face. “It’s going to get messy. Do you have a tarp to cover the sink and floor?”
Doria went out and came back with flowered bed sheets. Chaz set the caddy with her selected tools on the kitchen floor and accepted a cup of decaf while they waited for the cake to finish baking. Rese laid out the sheets, then placed the stepladder beneath the sag in the kitchen ceiling and climbed up. With a utility knife, she cut through the thick layers of paint and found what she’d expected.
While Chaz chatted with Doria, Rese took the chisel and sank it into the semi-crumbly, semi-soggy plaster covering the one-inch lathes. After scraping a hole about ten inches square, she examined a portion of wood lathe exposed. It was too soft and flexible, causing the bow that allowed the sag. Lathes could do that without a leak, but she suspected she’d find a bad pipe above. No flooding or even regular dripping, or the ceiling wouldn’t have held. Maybe no more than oozing, but enough to create an environment of decay in the ceiling. She’d have to cut the lathes at the studs to make the plumbing repair, and then replace them with timber batten, new plaster, and paint.
She jumped when Doria touched her hip, holding up a plate of crumbly coffee cake. She had all but forgotten Lance’s mom and Chaz were there. She wanted to get inside the ceiling and see what she was up against, but it was a good bet that refusing the coffee cake would insult Doria, and Lance would hear about it, and Monica and Lucy and the aunts and … it wasn’t worth it.
She pulled the goggles up onto her head, climbed down, and took the plate with a smile. “Thanks.” It was almost an hour since she’d finished the trout. And the coffee cake looked good.
It didn’t taste as good. There was a sharp, chalky flavor that reminded her of powdered adhesive, and if she had to guess, she’d say something had been added twice or in the wrong amount. She had mistaken a tablespoon for a teaspoon on one of Lance’s recipes, and come to think of it she recognized the taste as baking powder—the same mistake she’d made.
If Chaz noticed, he made no comment, so she took her cue from him. Besides, she’d eaten worse at her mother’s hands. She accepted a cup of decaf, since it was already made, and got as much of both things in as quickly as she could. Then she thanked Doria and set her plate on the counter.
“You want another piece? It’s a special recipe. Goes only to the bust and skips the hips.” Doria made a dancing motion with her hips that was powerful and sensuous. No wonder Roman couldn’t resist getting her alone.
Rese said, “No thanks.” She’d barely gotten past the need to hide her shape in the baggiest shirts she could find. And she didn’t need Chaz checking it out. But he seemed amused by Doria’s antics and didn’t inspect any deficiencies Rese might have in either area.
She replaced the goggles. “I won’t have this completed today. I’ll have to find timber batten and fixings.”
Doria said, “They have it all at the hardware. Most of these buildings were built the same time, the same way.”
It was possible a local hardware would stock the fixings, but batten had to be ordered and took about three days—unless the hardware store did keep some on hand especially for repairs to buildings in the area. “Well, let’s see what we’re up against.” She climbed the ladder and used the pull saw to cut through the cleared lathes where they attached to the stud. Chunks of plaster crumbled off, and she was glad for the goggles, but a mask would have been nice to block the choking dust.
When she cut across the second lathe, still partly connected to the first by the plaster between, the loose edges dropped. Mice tumbled from the hole. She shrieked, batting them off her face and arms and shoulders. Her chest heaved. Her arms shook, and her only consolation was that Doria was screaming still, swinging a towel at the scurrying vermin like a Spanish bullfighter.
“I knew there were mice! I told him!”
She might have told her.
“But no. There’s no mice in
this
building. Bah!” She slapped the towel at the corner, then screamed when the creature doubled back between her legs and escaped to the living room.
Rese looked down and realized Chaz had caught hold of her on the ladder. “You can let go.” She glowered. “I’m not going to fall. I never fall.” She never shrieked, either, but she had.
Chaz let go.
She hadn’t expected it. If she’d been thinking, focusing instead of eating cake and … She expelled a hard breath. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t screamed as long or loudly as Doria, though she must have thrashed enough that Chaz thought she’d come off the ladder.
Still breathing hard, she looked into the gap, tensed now and ready should any more creatures decide to make their escape. She shook off the feel of their feet on her skin, their tails dragging. She could not believe she’d lost it. But then, it had been a while since she’d had to keep her guard up. She’d gotten careless in more ways than one.
Doria hollered into the phone, “I’m calling the exterminator.” She turned and leaned against the counter, scouring the floor with her gaze. “Because there’s mice like I told you! You don’t hear no more.”
She must have called Roman. “No, you won’t shoot them with a BB gun! I’m calling a professional. There are babies in this house!”
Rese shot a glance at Chaz, who was patting Doria’s shoulder and murmuring, “It’s all right, Momma.”
Then she noticed tears in Doria’s eyes. Her family was endangered—even if it was just vermin—and she was fighting for them. The stark contrast to her own experience floored her.
Don’t think about it
.