by Mary Campisi
“You seem to know a lot more about me than I do about you.” Grace picked up her coffee mug, took a sip. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and tell me what’s going on that’s made you so sad.” Sad, that was the word, but if it were a cheating partner, it would be followed by words like furious, empty, vengeful…
Elissa Cerdi nodded and slid into the vinyl booth. “Thank you. I’m an outsider here and Pete—” she pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, sniffed “—he’s my fiancé, but if things don’t get better soon, I’m not sure how much longer I can call him that.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Grace waited while the waitress filled the other woman’s coffee cup, snapped her gum, and moved to the next table. “What happened?”
A sigh, followed by a second one, deeper, longer. “What didn’t happen? We met under unusual circumstances, holed up in a cabin if you can believe that. It was paradise.” Her voice spilled emotion. “Nobody to insert an opinion or make observations, no outside interference, no requests to fix a door or deliver a bag of nails.” She sipped her coffee, held the mug between her hands. “And nobody to fill Pete’s head with the damage I’d done by delivering letters that shouldn’t have been delivered.”
She sniffed again, glanced up from her coffee mug. “I didn’t know those letters could do such damage. I swear, I didn’t know. I believed Mrs. Blacksworth when she told me she was the victim. I believed everything she told me because I was young and naïve and incredibly stupid, just like I was when Zachary cheated on me and got another woman pregnant.” Elissa swiped at a tear. “What is wrong with me? I love Pete so much my chest aches, and I want to marry him, but when I see him talking to another woman or he comes home twenty minutes late, I turn into a witch. I start interrogating him, almost like I’m trying to trap him. Do you know I even checked his odometer the other night before he went out to deliver a bag of apples to his mother? Their house is 2.3 miles away, so when he got home, I snuck outside and checked the odometer again. Why would I do that? Pete’s a good man. Why am I punishing him for another man’s mistakes?”
Grace knew all about betrayal and struggling to trust again. It was horrible and there was no quick or easy answer. It had been three years and she hadn’t been able to take a chance at trusting a man again…not in a romantic relationship. If he wanted to be her friend, share a meal, maybe even a movie, she could work within those parameters. But anything more? Anything involving her heart or her vulnerability? That was a big no. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be much help in that area…”
“You aren’t? But Pop said he thought given the right circumstances and time, you and Max Ruhland could get a second chance.” Her lips wobbled, flipped to a frown. “Everything happened between me and Pete so fast. We were both getting over exes. His fiancée dumped him when he lost a big chunk of his money, and mine got another woman pregnant—twice. Pete and I were both vulnerable and when we were inside the cabin, we let that show.” She set the mug on the table, traced the rim. “We weren’t afraid to open our hearts because we pretended the feelings weren’t real, but we both knew they were. When Pete found out I was the one delivering letters that could hurt people in his town and one of those people was his father, we had a horrible fight. He left the cabin and I thought we were through. But I couldn’t let him go. I knew there was something between us and I had to try one last time.”
She blew out a breath, said in a quiet voice, “I came here and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I was so afraid he’d reject me, but I was more afraid I’d lose a chance to spend my life with the man who owned my heart. I’m so glad I took the chance. I know we love each other, but in the real world of day-to-day living, it’s tough. You have to have so much trust, and blind faith, and patience… And communication. Pop says that’s the key. Talk, no matter how queasy it makes you. Get it out in the open so it doesn’t fester. Pete’s not a talker.” She laughed, shook her head. “I’m the talker, but he says a lot without ever opening his mouth. That’s how I know the accusations from some of the residents about my association with Mrs. Blacksworth bother him. He gets this twitch in his jaw, his lips flatten out, and he sighs real hard. It’s obvious there’s something on his mind, but he won’t admit it.”
Grace placed her hands on the table, leaned forward. “I think you just identified the issues every couple faces now and again, no matter how much they love each other. We’re all different, and that’s a good thing. Can you imagine how boring it would be if you were attracted to someone just like you? I don’t think I could stand a do-gooder worrywart who wanted to control every situation.” She smiled when she saw Elissa’s expression. “I’m definitely a work in progress, and I’m certainly not someone to give relationship advice.” She thought of the latest argument she’d had with Max. Over leaving the grounds in the coffee pot? Really? That was over-the-top ridiculous and had nothing to do with coffee grounds and everything to do with something much deeper, much more significant, and they both knew it. Whether they would admit it or not was a whole other story.
Elissa held her gaze, her voice a mix of dread and hope. “So, Pete and I are going to have to talk about this, aren’t we?”
“This?” Grace prodded. “Can you be more specific?”
“All of it. I’m going to have to encourage Pete to talk to me about how he feels when people make comments about the letters. I know it bothers him, and I know he only wants to protect me, but I’m responsible for what I did. I wanted to apologize to the people I might have hurt, but he said not to do it. Maybe he was wrong, maybe they need to hear it, and maybe there’s a way for everyone to hear my apology.”
“I agree.” It was always easier to figure out what the other person in the relationship needed to do to make things better, but when it came to you? That was the tough part. “How about you, Elissa? Can you find a way to not make Pete pay for another man’s mess?”
Big sigh. “I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Grace said. Maybe one day she’d listen to her own words and find a way not to make every man pay for her dead husband’s betrayal.
Elissa Cerdi left Lina’s Café with a plan to set things right with her fiancé. She told Grace to make sure she kept up to date with the Magdalena Press because there might be an interesting article in there very soon. Grace finished her cherry pie, paid the waitress, and asked the question she’d been wondering since Elissa Cerdi approached her. “Can you tell me where to find Pop Benito?”
Apparently, the man was well known and had a history of butting into other people’s business because when Grace asked for the man’s address, the waitress raised a brow and said, “What’s the old codger done now?” She followed the question with a deep-bellied laugh and a snap of her gum. “Tell him Phyllis said to mind his own business and not scare the newcomers.” Then she’d leaned forward and said, “Come to the counter and I’ll fix a chocolate éclair for him. You want one, too?”
“No, thank you.”
She eyed Grace, snapped her gum again. “You know, some people eat pie and then go for the chocolate éclair. Not the beanpole ones, but I’m just saying, it happens.”
Grace hid a smile. “Thanks. Maybe next time.”
“Sure thing. Now come on over and I’ll get that éclair. Pop will make you his forever friend if you bring him one of these.” She eyed Grace. “Unless you can whip up a batch of those Italian cookies he loves so much. Pizzelles, he calls them.”
“Sorry, I’ve never made them.” She hated anise and her mother refused to make pizzelles with any other flavoring. Real pizzelles are made with anise, not vanilla or lemon, she’d said. Anise is an acquired taste and as an Italian, you should acquire a taste for it.
“Doesn’t matter. If Pop takes a liking to you he might invite you to one of his pizzelle-baking sessions.” The waitress named Phyllis winked. “If he does that, then you know he really likes you.”
Grace thought on Phyllis’s bits of wisdom as she d
rove to Pop Benito’s house and parked in front of his tiny house. She didn’t know exactly what she planned to say, but if he were spreading tales around town about her and Max, then she planned to see that he stopped. Whatever she and Max had been to each other was nobody’s business, and if this Benito man thought he could go poking around in the past or guess about the future, he could think again.
The front door creaked open before she reached the first step and a small, wiry man with a shock of gray hair and big glasses stared back at her. “Hello, Grace. I was wondering how long it would take you to find me.” He eyed the white bag in her hand. “What’s in the bag?”
Grace held out the bag, waited while he peeked inside. “A present from Phyllis. She said it’s your favorite.”
He laughed, sniffed. “A chocolate éclair. It is one of my many favorites, but there’s not many confections I don’t like.” Pop Benito motioned for her to follow him inside. “Of course, you can’t beat the honest-to-goodness pizzelle.”
“Phyllis said you make your own.”
“Sure do.” He pointed to a chair and said, “Have a seat. Would you like a pizzelle?”
“Umm, no thank you.”
“No pizzelle? What, you don’t like them?” When she shook her head, he scratched his jaw and studied her. “I never heard of an Italian who doesn’t like pizzelles. Hmm.” Another scratch of his jaw, followed by, “You don’t like any pizzelles or just the anise ones?”
“I’ve only ever had the anise.” Her mother knew how to guilt a person into not even trying another flavor.
“Well, that’s the problem. Anise can be a little hard to get used to, especially if you’re a young one, but I’ll bet you’ll like vanilla.” He paused, said in a soft voice, “Would you like to try a vanilla pizzelle? It might change your mind about pizzelles.”
Curiosity and the desire to be polite made her nod. “Yes, thank you. I think I would like to try one.”
“That’s a girl.” He grinned. “Be back in a jiff. Care for a glass of hibiscus tea?”
“Umm, no thank you, Mr. Benito. I really just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”
He eyed her from behind his large glasses. “Of course, you do, and I’ve been expecting it. But Pop doesn’t do chit-chat without a drink and a pizzelle close by.” With that, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later. “Now,” he said, handing her the glass of tea she hadn’t wanted and a pizzelle, “what did you want to talk about?” He set a tray of pizzelles on the table between them, plopped into an overstuffed chair, and snatched one.
“I hear you’ve been using me as an example to a couple with issues, kind of like a second-chance story.” She bit into the vanilla pizzelle, chewed. It was good and it was nothing like the anise ones her mother had insisted were the real deal.
He raised a brow. “Where’d you hear that?”
Was he really going to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about? Grace narrowed her gaze, dared him to deny it. “Elissa Cerdi.”
Pop Benito grinned. “Elissa. Lovely girl.”
“She is. We had a nice conversation.” Grace took another bite of pizzelle. Danielle and Natalie would like these. She’d have to get the recipe, and of course, a pizzelle maker, and the girls would have to swear not to tell Grandma about it. Virginia Romano had loosened her “do’s and don’ts” but she still had a long list of “should’s.” “How did you know about me and Max?”
“You mean that you were both tied to the same house because of the thirty-day agreement, or that you were sweet on each other years ago?”
Grace cleared her throat. “Both.”
The old man’s eyes sparkled behind glasses that were large enough to be goggles and said, “Frances and my Lucy were the best of friends back in the day.” He pointed at the portrait of a red-haired woman hanging over the mantel. “That’s my Lucy.” His voice wobbled with his next words. “She’s the love of my life, and the reason I try to help those in need. If not for Lucy, I’d be minding my own business, keeping my thoughts and my opinions to myself, and waiting for the Good Lord to let me join her. Lucy was the kind-hearted one who worried about the sick and broken-hearted; she was the one who acted as counselor, priest, friend, and anything in between. She said all some people needed was a willing ear to listen and a helping hand to guide them out of their troubles. Boy, was she ever right.”
He scratched his jaw, his lips pulling into a slow smile as he studied the portrait. “You taught me all about it, didn’t you, Lucy? Made sure this crusty old soul carried on your work once you were gone.” His gaze drifted back to Grace. “My wife and your aunt were great friends, talked about everything from the price of a roasting chicken to ways to get grease off a shirt. When those two got together, they chattered like crickets.” He let out a laugh. “Nonstop. After Lucy left us, it was too dang quiet. I stayed busy with my vegetables and The Bleeding Hearts Society, but oh, how I missed her.” He grabbed a tissue, swiped at his eyes. “Still miss her.”
The expression on Pop Benito’s face blended with his words to create an aura of pure love. What must it be like to be loved this much, even in death? Grant had said he loved her and she believed for a time, he had—with as much capacity as he had to offer love. But what she saw on Pop’s face, what she heard in his voice? She’d never shared that with Grant. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He sniffed, nodded. “Appreciate it.” He offered her another pizzelle, took one for himself. “Frannie and I had a good many cries over Lucy, shared quite a few glasses of chianti, too. That’s when we decided it was our duty to help others find their path, like Lucy would want us to do. Frannie was the shy one, but I took to the talking and listening like I’d been doing it my whole life. The town started to come to me, ask for help and direction, but your aunt said her mission was the kids. She started tutoring whoever needed help, and the next thing I knew, she was feeding them.” His dark gaze met hers, held it. “She even made up a bed for one of the kids who didn’t have a very good home life. Did his laundry, cut his hair… You know who that boy was?”
If he asked her a question like that, there could only be one answer. “Max?”
“Yup.” He nodded. “Maxwell Ruhland, the young man whose parents couldn’t be bothered with him. Frannie gave him a little attention and the boy blossomed, like a hibiscus placed in the sun.” Tsk-tsk. “It was something to see. There’s a lot more to that story, but it’s not for me to tell. If the boy wants you to know, you’ll hear it from him.”
When had this happened? Before or after she and Max were together? “I never knew…”
“Nope, you didn’t, and that was the way your aunt wanted it. She and Max had a special relationship that was a lot more involved than an annual Christmas card and five lines of catch-up.”
Grace tried to fight the heat swirling to her cheeks. Pop Benito was referring to the Christmas card she sent every year, filled with a few sentences and the ages of the girls. Nice. Neat. Bland. Not an extra ounce of emotion on the card unless one considered the magical expressions on the girls’ faces. “You mean me.”
“I do.” He shook his head, sighed. “All your aunt ever wanted was a family, but your mother wouldn’t have it, said Frannie had a way of getting inside your father’s head like a boll weevil and it had to stop. Your aunt asked questions that made your father think, and my guess is that’s what your mother didn’t like.” Another shake of his head. “Sounds like Virginia Romano was a real drill sergeant who had her own playbook on how life should be lived, and nobody was going to change it.”
That sounded about right. Grace nibbled on the vanilla pizzelle, waited for him to say more. “When Frannie got the cancer diagnosis, she started to plan. One of the things she regretted most was losing touch with her brother’s family, especially you.” His voice dipped, wobbled. “She said you and she were a lot alike, playing it safe, always doing what was expected of you…choosing sensible over daring… That’s why we came up with
the thirty-day plan.”
“We?”
He nodded. “Oh, but we had some good times creating that plan.” A pause, followed by a long sigh. “Cried a bit, ate a lot of pasta and pizzelles, and came up with a way for you to glimpse the real Frances Romano, and do a bit of soul-searching, too.” He slid her a glance, winked. “Your young man is a real keeper.”
“Max is not my young man.” He’d been her first love, no denying that, but that was a long time ago.
“If you say so.” Another wink, followed by a smile. “But you just might change your mind once you spend a bit more time with him.”
“Mr. Benito—”
“Pop, or if you want to be more particular, then Angelo.”
“Pop,” she corrected, “I appreciate that you and my aunt were friends, and I can understand how you wanted to help her through her last days by encouraging her to pen this thirty-day guide, but please, don’t use me and Max as an example of second-chance love.” She homed in on those dark eyes, said in a firm voice, “Because that is not going to happen.”
The man glanced at the portrait of his wife, smiled, and turned to Grace. “I don’t think my wife would agree with you. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that you can’t fight destiny, no matter how hard you try?” The smiled spread, creased his face with rivers of wrinkles. “And whether or not you realize it yet, you and Max Ruhland are meant to be together.”
