The rain had stopped and the crowd had dispersed when we emerged from the office. Pops went to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen while I wiped down the tables. I'd just started to sweep the floor when the door opened.
I turned to greet whoever had made the little bell jingle, but the smile slid right off my face. Lizzy Tillman, the bane of my high school existence, stood there. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face in a smooth French twist, a look I couldn't pull off with a gallon of Aquanet. A sleek black sheath dress encased her greyhound-lean frame, and pearls hung from her neck and earlobes. Her heels clicked on the tile as she approached me, like spurs jangling on cowboy boots before the last gunfight. Dread coiled in my gut, and I was sorry I hadn't taken Pops up on the nap.
"Andy." She didn't look surprised to see me. Word spread faster than diaper rash on a baby's butt in this town.
"Hello, Lizzy." It'd been years since we'd seen one another, yet all my supposed maturity melted away at seeing her. Damn, but the urge to tell her to bugger off and not let the door whack her on her bony ass rose up inside me. It wasn't worth the momentary satisfaction, especially if Aunt Cecily caught wind of my unprofessional attitude in her pasta shop, so I clamped my mouth shut and waited.
"How have you been?"
"Fine. You?"
"Great."
Awkward silence. So much for pleasantries. She looked just as uncomfortable as I felt. Two adults who had been completely rotten to each other in high school, trying to be mature, but unsure where to start.
I couldn't take the silence anymore. "What can I do for you?"
Her smile was tight, brittle, and it piqued my interest. "Well, since you asked, I need a caterer for an event."
The Bowtie Angel's famous portable pasta bar was perfect for all sorts of special occasions. A baby shower, a twentieth wedding anniversary, even the random Briss. Hey, after witnessing the main event, who wants to eat meat?
Moving slowly, so I didn't do something idiotic like trip over my own feet, I sauntered behind the register and retrieved the catering form. "When do you need this, and how many people are you expecting?"
Lizzy tapped her chin thoughtfully. "About two hundred and tomorrow night."
"You can't be serious." Pasta for two hundred by tomorrow night? She was out of her mind.
She shrugged, almost apologetically. "My caterer cancelled at the last minute."
We stared at each other for a minute. An event like that would bring in more money than the pasta shop would make in a month though. I blew out a breath. "That's a big crowd."
One elegant blond eyebrow arched up. "Are you saying you can't handle it?"
Oh, those were fighting words. "I didn't—"
"We will do it." Aunt Cecily emerged from the kitchen, her full black skirt swooshing around her legs. Her steely-eyed glare went from me to Lizzy and back again. "We will do the full buffet catering for your event. Pick three kinds of pasta, ten toppings, and we will see it done. Wine and dessert are extra."
Lizzy, like everyone else, was cowed by my petite aunt. She leaned down and filled out the form without another word. Aunt Cecily's gnarled old fingers flew over the cash register and named a staggering sum. Out came Lizzy's Black Amex card, and it was a done deal.
The bell jingled again, signaling Lizzy's departure." Aunt Cecily," I began, but the phone rang.
"Answer that," she called over her shoulder before the kitchen door swung shut in my face.
Clearing my throat, I picked up the phone. "Bowtie Angel, pasta and catering."
"Andy, is that you?" The male voice was gruff, and he practically shouted over the din of noises in the background.
"Yup, it's me." Why was I even surprised? If Lizzy knew I was back in town, her mom knew, and so did her mother's best friend, Tallulah, the biggest gossip in Lumberton County. "Who is this?"
"Lenny, Lenny Garrison. How you doing, Little Bit?"
I hated that nickname and not just because Kyle had given it to me. Sure, I was short but when said with a drawling accent it always sounded like the guys were calling me "little shit." Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the wall. Hives were imminent. "Just fine. What can I do for you?"
"Our wives are at a book club meeting, and we're mighty hungry. White Tudor number 154 on the corner of Dobson Street and Lake Road. Three fettuccini Alfredo, five bowtie, one with pesto, one with butter and cheese and the rest with meat sauce, and two baked spaghettis."
Aunt Cecily would be thrilled, or as thrilled as she ever was. "Any special reason everyone wants pasta today?"
He chuckled. "There's a really big tip if you deliver it here yourself."
Figured. All the old gang wanted to get the scoop on my televised debacle. It would be a good-natured sort of ribbing, the kind you can only get from friends who have seen you at your worst several times over. Why the hell not get paid for the mocking they were sure to dish out? Maybe I could even learn to laugh about it? "See you in twenty minutes."
I hung up and went in search of Pop's car keys. Never let it be said I didn't sacrifice for my family.
* * *
"How did it go?" Pops asked as I entered the pasta shop.
"They were playing "Mack the Knife" when I got in."
Pops frowned. "What's wrong with that? It's a good song."
"Everyone thinks I tried to poison my audience, like I'm some lunatic."Pops shook his head. "You're reading too much into it."
Maybe. "At least I got a nice tip." I flashed him my wad of cash.
Behind me the office door opened with a creaking groan. I turned, and Aunt Cecily shot me a squinty-eyed glare. "You must make the pasta now."
"Cecily," Pops began, but didn't add anything when Cecily shifted her gaze to him.
I rose and headed toward the kitchen. Not because I intended to cook, but it was where I'd left my purse.
"You must make the pasta."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Propping my hands on the basin, I watched the water trickle down the drain. "No one wants to eat my cooking."
"I cannot do this whole order by myself. I am too old for such a task."
"Then we're going to have to cancel on Lizzy." I was fine with that option.
"You gave your word. When a Rossetti woman gives her word, she keeps it, no matter what. Besides, you need to show that little porca puttana you do not care how she thinks of you." It was rare that Aunt Cecily cursed—unless it was at Pops— but when she did so, she did it with style. Like calling Lizzy the Italian equivalent of a pig whore. I couldn't help but smile a little. It was one of Nana's favorite curses.
"I'm only half a Rossetti," I told her, unnecessarily. "On Mom's and Nana's side."
"The side that counts. The side that makes the pasta. Blood is blood." She handed me a paper towel. "You will make the pasta now."
"Aunt Cecily…" Crap, was there any way to dissuade her?
She patted my shoulder. "You are a molta bene cook. A real Rossetti. For your family, you will make the pasta."
How could I say no?
We worked side by side to Dino's "Ain't that a Kick in the Head?" Just two Italian women too stubborn to go down without a fight. Pops stuck his head in to check on us, shook it back and forth, and retreated to the office. Covered in flour, we made the pasta well into the night. Cecily brought out every drying rack she owned, and noodles of varying thickness hung suspended like starchy streamers.
Pops took me home around ten, after all the pasta had dried and was stored securely in Tupperware for the next night.
"Let me drive." It was a public service, really. No one wanted Pops driving after dark. If at all.
His eyebrows drew together like two zebra-striped caterpillars smooching. "The man drives. I taught you that much."
"A man's driving is the reason I don't have a car right now. Give me the keys, Pops."
Cecily glared at him out of her upstairs window. Pops waved, and she gave him the evil eye before drawing the shade down. He grunted and
held the door open for me. "I don't got all night, Andy girl. Either get in or walk."
"Fine. But go slowly. One car accident a day is my limit."
He didn't listen, and I was tossed around like a cork on the ocean as his Town Car took turns like a school bus on meth. He did a left-hand turn on Hickory Ridge when the light didn't change fast enough to suit him. "Jeez-a-lou, Pops—"
Pops braked, and I braced my hands on the dashboard, heart thudding, eyes wide.
"Slicker than cat spit," he chuckled.
Every part of my body ached, and I couldn't think. "What did you have for dinner?"
He muttered something too low for me to hear.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I wasn't hungry," he grumbled.
Pop's lack of appetite worried me. The psychologist I talked to after Nana died cautioned me that disinterest in food or a change in sleeping habits could indicate depression, especially after the loss. Though I felt like death warmed over, I offered, "I can fix you something if you like."
The difficult old curmudgeon stayed true to his colors. "No, you go on up to bed. I can fend for myself."
He shuffled off into the living room, and after a brief pause the late night news blared from the television. Roofus, Pop's ancient beagle, snored from his dog bed in the hall. No more damage for me to do tonight. I climbed the stairs, weary, bleary, and stiff as all get-out.
Though exhaustion cloaked me, I didn't fall asleep right away. Moonlight filtered through the wood slats, casting lasagna-shaped shadows on the ceiling. Turning to my side, I forced myself to focus on something other than work. An image of Jones popped into my head, and I relived our run-in. I wondered what had brought him to Beaverton.
My dreams were filled with handsome men and fast cars.
Pesto Sauce
Combine 2 cups of basil with 1/2 cup pine nuts. Pulse a few times in a food processor. (Because if you don't have a food processor and you try this by hand, your arms will fall off before you're done. Seriously splurge on the food processor.) Add 3 cloves of minced garlic, and pulse a few more times.
Slowly add 1/2 cup garlic infused extra virgin olive oil in a constant stream while the food processor is on. Stop to scrape down the sides of the food processor with a rubber spatula. Add 1/2 cup Parmesan cheese and pulse again until blended. Add a pinch of sea salt. Serve over pasta, fish, chicken, toasted Italian bread, almost anything!
**Andy's note: You can substitute walnuts for pine nuts, but just make sure you chop them well before adding the basil! I find that rotini holds this sauce best.
CHAPTER THREE
Rain tapped against my window, and a groan born from the pit of my soul passed my lips. Aw hell. The soreness from the accident had multiplied like a couple of horny bunnies as the aches and pains spread throughout my body. It took me three tries to get up, and I prayed hot water waited for me in the bathroom.
No such luck. The one of the old Victorian's quirks was that the ancient water heater was temperamental about delivering hot water to the upper floors. It had never bothered Nana and Pops, whose bathroom was downstairs, and since they didn't have money to replace the stupid thing, I had learned to live with it. Shivering and aching after my shower, I desperately wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week. But the last thing I needed right now was for Lizzy Tillman to spread the word that I didn't meet my obligations.
Again, I offered to cook for Pops, and again he refused. I downed a bowl of cereal, let Roofus into the backyard and dried his fur on return, and headed out to the Town Car.
"My poor Mustang Sally." Making a mental note to call Mike's Garage and check on when I might expect to get my car back, I navigated into town.
The gunmetal gray sky matched my mood, and the wiper blades could hardly keep up with the downpour. No one else was in sight. They all had more sense than to be out cruising around in the rain. The lights in the pasta shop blazed, so Aunt Cecily had to be already puttering around. We had tons to do, and as I darted under the awning, I made a mental list of all I needed to accomplish.
"Good, you are here." Aunt Cecily stirred a huge pot of marinara. "Your uniform is upstairs."
"My uniform?" I hung my rain jacket on the back of the door. "What uniform?"
"You must wear for the job."
Warily, I crept up the stairs to Aunt Cecily's spic-n-span studio apartment. There, laid out on the bed, was my uniform. Yards of black satin and lace, enough to make a nice dining room table for the Addams family reunion, sprawled across the twin bed.
"She can't be serious," I breathed staring down at the black muumuu. "It's a frickin' tent!"
"You try on. See if it needs hemming!" Aunt Cecily called from the bottom of the stairs.
What it needed was some accelerant and a blowtorch. "Aunt Cecily, I can't work in this!" What if I tripped and stumbled into the lake? Cement underpants wouldn't drag my ass down faster. Crap, what was I going to do?
"Does it fit?" Aunt Cecily hollered up. The creak of her slight weight on the stairs sent the fleeting thought of saying "no" scurrying back into the dark recesses of my mind. No one with a lick of sense would defy her. She might use The Eye and hex them.
Grimacing, I tried it on. It smelled of moth balls. I held my breath and tugged it on over the top of my jeans and T-shirt. The dress hung like a curtain. In fact I think I'd seen curtains like this once, in a haunted house carnival ride. The only tight parts were the sleeves, but the rest was cut to preserve traditional Italian peasant-girl modesty. Or perhaps keep a family of four warm at night.
My reflection in the antique mirror told me that I looked like a bloated, unwrinkled version of Aunt Cecily. The grape to her raisin. My stiffness from the car accident caused me to move like someone suffering from rheumatism. I squinted my eyes and tried to look like someone who could put the evil eye on her enemies. The fellas would be lining up at the exits to get away from me. Or rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically.
Andy Buckland, what a catch.
"Come down so I see what needs to be done."
This was the low point of my life. Behold my future as an unwed, bitter, and old Italian harpy. I had to bunch great fistfuls of fabric at my waist to maneuver down the stairs. The kitchen was empty. "Aunt Cecily?"
"Out here!"
Great, she had to go out into the front of the pasta shop, where everyone could see me through the windows. Just peachy. At least it was raining and too early for the lunch rush no one would be out, and I could skulk back up to change before anyone—
That thought died an early death as I pushed through the door and came face-to-face with Malcolm Jones.
To his credit, he didn't laugh, at least on the outside. His eyes danced with mirth as he surveyed the oceans of fabric that seemed to be growing by the minute.
"Andrea," his lips twitched in greeting.
"Of frigging course." My shoulders slumped.
Aunt Cecily elbowed me in the ribs. "Language!"
"I dropped by to see how you are feeling."
"Smothered," I said, and he laughed.
Aunt Cecily nodded in approval. "This is good. I do not have to put the eye on you."
"The eye?" Jones's eyebrows arched up.
I shifted my weight, which took even more effort while draped in the death shroud. "The evil eye. It's an Italian thing."
Jones nodded. "I'm relieved."
"I must see to my sauce. You will talk with this man, Niece." With that pronouncement, she left.
"She's a bit scary," Jones said.
"Why the hell do you think I'm wearing this get-up? At least until I can find a reasonable excuse to get out of it."
"Is it flame retardant?"
"She'd kill me if I lit it on fire." Though the thought had crossed my mind.
"No, I mean, it's unsafe to wear such a…robust garment when you're working around an open flame, correct?"
"Oh, thank God." This time I sagged from more than the weight of a bale of velvet. "You're my
hero."
"Anything for a damsel in distress." The line was hokey, but delivered in his crisp accent it made my girl parts tingle.
We exchanged a look, loaded with undercurrents of sexual tension. I licked my lips, and his gaze fell to my mouth and then darted away. Maybe my future wasn't quite as bleak as it had seemed a few minutes ago.
"This is an interesting place." Jones took in the décor. "I don't believe I've ever been to a shop specializing in pasta quite like this before."
"It's a family business. Used to be just Nana and Aunt Cecily. They opened it together with their inheritance. I asked Nana once why a pasta shop and not a restaurant, and she told me it was because she wanted to make pasta, but not necessarily serve it all the time. A restaurant would require more staffing, a wider menu. She and Aunt Cecily like things as they are, simple, traditional." Clamping my lips together, I cut off the incessant babble. Jones didn't care about the ins and outs of the pasta shop and my family lunacy.
"Traditional can be refreshing," he countered.
"Except when it comes to fashion." I spread out the skirt of my muumuu to illustrate.
Aunt Cecily pushed back through the kitchen door. "Here, you take this." She handed Jones a takeout container of what looked like the white sausage and spinach lasagna I'd made last night for Lizzy's pasta bar buffet.
Jones accepted the container. "Thank you very much, Ms. Buckland."
"It is Rossetti." She corrected him without her usual add-on of you are a stranger so you know nothing.
I bit my lip. Aunt Cecily must have taken a shine to Jones. She never offered free food to anyone outside the family.
"You will come back again," Aunt Cecily informed him.
Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) Page 3
