"She's exceedingly stubborn," the SUV driver spoke up. "And a hazard on the roads." Then the bastard winked at me! If he'd ask me to bear his children at that moment I probably would've agreed.
The paramedics helped me from the car once the dog collar was in place. I groaned when I saw the damage to both vehicles. My insurance would cover the cost, but finding the parts to repair my vintage Mustang was no small feat.
"No hospital," I insisted. Having just lost my job, I couldn't afford it, and if my girl parts could tingle in reaction to the other driver, obviously all my synapses were firing. Perching on the bumper of the ambulance, I tried to look casual as I offered the EMT a reassuring smile. "I'll just rest here a minute."
A police cruiser arrived on scene and assessed the damage for insurance purposes. Daniel Tate climbed from the car. I'd known Danny since high school. His parents had attended church with Nana and Pops, and he had been tight with Kyle, my high school boyfriend. He always wore cologne that smelled like bologna. "Andy," he said as he tipped his hat in my direction. "You all right?"
I tried to nod, but the brace made it impossible. "Yeah. Though this isn't one of my all-star moments."
Danny surveyed the automotive carnage. "I saw you on TV. Elsie Giddings DVRed your show, and we watched it at the Spring Fling committee meeting. Never saw so many people vomit at once like that. Did anybody die?"
Heat scalded my face. "No. Just a mild case of food poisoning," I muttered.
His focus shifted to the SUV driver. "And who might you be?"
"Malcolm Jones." He extended his driver's license and insurance card to Danny.
Danny eyed his license with suspicion. "New York license and registration. You don't sound like any Yankee I've ever heard. Just passing through?"
Jones stood at parade rest. "No, I'm new to the area."
"Got any business here?" Bologna Boy was like a dog with bone, working it relentlessly to get to the juicy marrow. Fodder for the Spring Fling committee gossips, no doubt.
"Yes." Jones didn't volunteer anything more.
Before the full-scale interrogation commenced I blurted, "It was my fault. I was distracted, worried about Pops."
"All right. Well, we all know you've been under stress." Danny wandered off to protect and serve someone else just as the tow truck from Mike's Garage showed and rigged up my sweet little ride.
"This is so not my month," I muttered.
Jones stood by my side. "Thank you."
"I didn't mean to say that. It's just that they are all so suspicious of strangers around here, and they don't make 'em much stranger than you." Oops, that didn't come out right.
Our eyes locked, and my stomach dropped somewhere down by my knees. The wind picked up, and the skies threatened one hell of a storm in the making.
"Can I offer you a ride?" he asked.
My gut told me Jones wouldn't haul me off into the woods to mutilate me. A police officer had seen us together after all. Considering his vehicle was still in working order and mine wasn't, I leapt at the offer. "That'd be great. Do you know where the Bowtie Angel is?"
"Main Street, correct?"
"Yeah, it's my family's pasta shop. I'll set you up with the best homemade baked ziti you ever tasted."
His car smelled like new leather and male spice. On our way into town, we passed the damn tractor.
Jones only smiled.
* * *
The sky let loose as we turned onto Main, rain dumped by the bucketful into the street. Jones, God love him, slowed down even more until I pointed out the turn to our destination. The town was a throwback to an era long before McDonald's and Walmart had sprung up like demented Whac-A-Moles. No franchises were allowed within the city limits. The only drive-through was the Oakdale Elementary school on the corner of Broad Street and 8th.
"Well, here we are," I announced unnecessarily as he pulled the SUV up in front of the Bowtie Angel. I peered through the windshield and the pouring rain, trying to see the two-story house-turned ice cream shop-turned pasta bar, from a stranger's point of view. The white vinyl siding and brick red roof were the original colors. A brand new Coca-Cola machine stood sentinel outside the front door, under a smaller second section of roofing that ran perpendicular to the larger covering, encouraging people to stop for a cold beverage or to huddle out of the rain. A red and white striped canopy covered the rarely used outdoor porch with a mess of little round wrought iron tables and chairs too small for the average American butt.
During the warmer months, Aunt Cecily would plant fresh herbs in the built-in rectangular boxes, staples for the unique sauces and breads trademarked by the pasta shop. Now they sat empty, as if they too mourned the loss of my grandmother. A five-foot long ceramic angel with spaghetti-like hair, sporting a bowtie and holding a welcome banner flew over the door. Her smile had always looked creepy to me, and the Carolina sun had bleached her yellow hair to almost white. But Nana had been so proud when she'd brought the damn thing home from ceramics class, and Pops didn't have the heart to take it down.
"Guess you should come in so we can get you that ziti." Southern hospitality demanded no less, but in all honestly, the last thing I wanted was for Jones to witness whatever unique brand of crazy might be hatching beyond that red door.
"Another time perhaps. I'm already late for my scheduled appointment." He pronounced the word the British way, shed-u-eld. Color me charmed.
"Where are you from?" I had to know what region on the globe cultivated such a delicious accent.
"New Zealand, originally. Though I consider myself more a citizen of the world."
"Huh." Well that was a dumbass thing to say. I cleared my throat.
"Well, thanks for the ride."
Jones actually climbed out and circled around to help me down. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his collar, yet he still looked so unruffled. My skin tingled where our hands touched, and our gazes met for a sizzling instant. A herd of butterflies let loose in my stomach as he escorted me under the awning. "See you around." My voice came out higher than normal, a little breathy.
"I'll look forward to it." With a smile, he was gone. I sighed like a silly schoolgirl as his taillights disappeared into the gloom.
Turning, I gasped at my reflection in the plate glass window. Bedraggled would have been a step up from the mess staring back at me. Hair plastered to my scalp, ripped flannel shirt worn jacket style, hole in the knee of my jeans. "No career, no man, no reason to get out of bed in the morning," the outfit screamed. I was a walking testament to a woman who'd given up. Add to that the lines of strain that had formed around my eyes and mouth plus that not-so-fresh-from-a-car-accident feeling…ugh. Not a pretty picture.
Vanity could take a backseat though, the way it usually did. Pulling open the door, I entered the pasta shop. The sound of the jingling bell above the door greeted me first, followed by the yeasty scent of fresh bread and the savory aroma of garlic, basil, rosemary, and oregano.
The Bowtie Angel had been an ice cream shop sometime during the fifties, until my grandmother and her sister, my great aunt Cecily, had bought it and turned it into their own pasta shop. The display case that had once held gallons of tutti-frutti and heavenly hash now housed rigatoni, ziti, angel hair, macaroni, and linguini made fresh daily, as well as an assortment of sauces and other toppings, like pine nuts, basil leaves, cherry tomatoes, black olives, and fresh Parmesan and Romano ready to be grated at a moment's notice. The food could be carryout or dine in, and the shop was oftentimes a gathering place for the townspeople on every day but Sunday. Sunday was church day in that international hotbed of intrigue, Beaverton, N.C.
The pasta shop actually felt more like home than Pop's Victorian on Grove Street. I'd worked there every day after school and almost every Saturday. The black and white tile floor, the plush red booths by the window, the gleaming chrome on the barstools, scents of fresh herbs, buzz of happy conversation, Dean Martin crooning from the jukebox, all of it was as familiar as my refle
ction.
The booths were jam-packed with patrons who'd decided to stay and eat a hot meal instead of dragging their food out into the cool spring rain. Aunt Cecily didn't encourage people to linger, not the way Nana had done for years. My grandmother had used the restaurant as the hub of her social life, but in the South, old habits die hard and then resurrect themselves like a freaking pasta-eating zombie.
"Andy!" Mrs. Getz waved to me from the booth to the left of the door. She'd been my fourth grade teacher, a cheerful plump woman who loved to gossip and can her own jam. For years she'd been hounding Nana and Aunt Cecily to offer her jams in the pasta shop. But as Aunt Cecily put it, "What is a lasagna going to do with jam? Nothing, because my lasagna, it is not stupid."
Aunt Cecily, queen of public relations.
I moved over to greet Mrs. Getz and her husband. "Mrs. Getz, Mr. Getz. How are you?"
Walter Getz looked up from his plate of baked ziti with a side of rosemary bread. "Just fine honey, can't complain. How about you?"
Irma Getz kicked him not so subtly under the table. "So sorry about your show, Andy. Such a shame. I had almost raised enough money with the Rotary Club for a sign with your name on it. Like that one in North Myrtle Beach, that says 'Home of Vanna White.' But then you poisoned all those people, and we decided to put it toward the St. Patrick's Day parade instead."
The smile froze on my face. The way she'd said that rankled, like it had been part of some master plan. No wonder Pops wasn't doing well. His friends and neighbors thought his granddaughter was some kind of homicidal lunatic. Was that a step up or down from a "poor child" turned "opportunistic gold digger"?
Before I could come up with a decent response, Aunt Cecily pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, spotted me, and left the steaming pan of Italian meatballs on top of the register. "Come, I must look at you."
All movement in the diner stopped as though everyone feared they were the unlucky person she meant. Without Nana's sweet to balance out the sour, Aunt Cecily seemed more imposing than a four-foot-eleven-inch octogenarian ought.
I moved closer, presenting myself for her inspection. Her jet black hair fell long and straight down her slim back and was threaded liberally with white. She wore a band to keep it off her face, and I always thought it looked like a dish of black and white angel hair pasta. The perfect complement to Nana's rotini-shaped curls, which I'd inherited—though mine tended more toward Wild Man of Borneo, especially after spending a few hours in high humidity.
She surveyed me top to toe and then nodded crisply in what I hoped was approval. "Enough of this standing about. You will come to the kitchen and make the pasta."
Several forks clattered. I squared my shoulders and resisted the urge to look around and verify that the entire room full of patrons had born witness to Andy's Folly. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if a whole troop of Boy Scouts lurked in the kitchen, EpiPens at the ready, because the little buggers would do anything for a merit badge.
"Actually, I need to see Pops. Is he here?"
Aunt Cecily squinted her eyes, somehow managing to look down at me as though I'd disappointed her. "He is very sick, wrong in the head."
"I heard that, you old battle-ax," Pops grumbled as he emerged from the tiny business office.
"Aricchi Du Porcu." Aunt Cecily glowered while comparing her brother-in-law to the hair on a pig's ear. Though I was probably the only person in the joint who understood the insult, her tone clued the rest of the patrons in on her displeasure.
Everyone knew that dining in the pasta shop often came with a bonus floor show.
"Andy girl!" Pops shuffled over to me, intentionally ignoring the tiny seething Italian woman glaring daggers at him. Pops wasn't big on public displays of affection, but he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of peppermint and wood smoke.
His color was high, and though his skin was paper thin and mottled with age spots, he looked much the same as he had over the past five years. A sigh of relief escaped. Aunt Cecily must have been mistaken. He didn't look depressed at all.
Pops escorted me back to the office and shut the door. "Daniel Tate called. Said you vouched for some strange guy lurking about off Route 86."
Tattletale. "He's right on both counts, although the 'strange guy' is a transplant who gave me a ride here, since my car is wrecked." I didn't elaborate because I didn't want him to know just how worried I'd been about him. Pops would have considered it shameful to have his granddaughter fuss over him to such an extent.
Upon closer inspection he looked tired, with tight lines creasing around his mouth. "What's wrong, Pops? I can see it in your face."
With a grunt, he lowered himself into the leather office chair held together by duct tape. His shoulders slumped in as though he carried the weight of the world and was bowing under the constant strain.
"It's this place. We need to sell the Bowtie Angel."
Bowtie Angel Fresh Pasta
Combine 2 cups of all-purpose flour and 1/4 teaspoon of salt on a pastry board. Make a well in center. Whisk 3 large eggs and 1 teaspoon extra virgin olive oil in small bowl until well blended. Gradually pour eggs into the well in flour mixture while mixing with fork or fingertips to form ball of dough.
Place the dough on the lightly floured surface and flatten slightly. Fold the dough in half toward you, and press the dough away from you with heels of your hands. Give the dough a quarter turn and continue folding, pushing, and turning. Continue kneading for 5 minutes or until smooth and elastic, adding more flour to prevent sticking if necessary. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and let stand for 15 minutes.
Unwrap the dough and knead again on a lightly floured surface. Using a floured rolling pin, roll out dough to a 1/8-inch thick circle on a lightly floured surface. Gently pick up the dough circle with both hands. Hold it up to the light to check for places where the dough is too thick. Return to the board; even out any thick spots. Then let it rest until the dough is slightly dry but can be handled without breaking.
Lightly flour the dough circle; then roll it loosely onto the rolling pin. Slide the rolling pin out, press the dough roll gently with your hand, and cut it into strips of the desired width with sharp knife. Carefully unfold the strips.
The pasta can be dried and stored at this point. Hang the strips over a pasta rack or a clean broom handle covered with plastic wrap and propped between two chairs. Dry for three hours. Store in an airtight container at room temperature up to 4 days. To serve, cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water 3 to 4 minutes, just until al dente. Drain well.
**Andy's note: You can flavor the pasta with tomato juice or pureed basil leaves added during the blending stage. No matter what Aunt Cecily says, it goes much quicker if you mix the dough in a Cuisinart and shape with a pasta machine, and it tastes just as delicious!
CHAPTER TWO
I sank into the folding metal chair behind the scarred and cluttered desk. Sell the Bowtie Angel? My brain couldn't wrap itself around the notion. "What happened?"
Pops scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd been the business manager of the pasta shop since its inception and had always managed to keep it in the black. "Recession, inflation combined with drop off in sales. But that's just part of it. Your grandmother was the glue that held this place together, always talked sense into that crazy old bat of a sister. Without her, Cecily drives off customers by the busload. We throw out more food than we sell on an average day. "
I fidgeted with a loose button on my shirt. "What about lowering the prices, having specials, hiring someone else to deal with people? A loan maybe? There's got to be something we can do."
Pops shook his head. "I've tried, but Cecily won't budge on anything. Says it's a family enterprise, and only family is allowed. Besides, we don't have the money to take on new staff. I took out a loan to pay for the new roof, but we're barely making enough to pay that back, never mind the cost of food and utilities. "
"Other than calling me names in Italian? She says I dishonor her sister's hard work by even suggesting we sell the business. Then she clangs around in the kitchen and undermines every attempt I've made to bring people in. We don't have any portable pasta bars scheduled because no one wants to invite Cecily into their home. Like she's a vampire." Then almost under his breath but still loud enough for me to hear, "Except she's sucking life out of our business."
So that was why Aunt Cecily claimed Pops was "losing his grip on reality." She didn't like the unpalatable truth he was shoving down her throat. "Pops, try to see it from her point of view. Aunt Cecily has been making pasta here as her own boss since she was a teenager. She doesn't want someone else telling her what to do."
Pops snorted. "Like anyone could. I swear, if God himself descended from Heaven above, your Aunt Cecily would drive him to drink." He sighed and shook his head. "Believe me—I know how much the place means to her. I've retired from all my other accounting jobs but this one. The Bowtie Angel holds a lot of memories. You practically grew up here. But there is no other choice. We need a financial infusion. A big one."
Failure hung over me. If I'd had my act together, my cooking show would have been the saving grace of the Bowtie Angel. Instead, I'd doled out food poisoning to a live studio audience. No one would lend me money to cook for the public.
"I'm sorry to burden you like this, Andy girl. You've already had a tough day. Why don't you go on upstairs and lie down in Cecily's apartment until I'm ready to head home."
My heart warmed at the protective gesture. "That's okay. Maybe I'll work the register for a bit, do a little cleaning until closing time." If nothing else, my notoriety would spread through the town like wildfire, and patrons would drop in for a look. Plus, I could act as a much needed referee between Pops and Aunt Cecily. The thought held little joy but someone had to or the Bowtie Angel would be the scene of a double homicide when they drew pistols at dawn.
Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
