Lily pushed aside the sliding glass door that opened out onto the brick patio. “Hi, Donna!” she called, leaning out the door.
“Hey there!”
“You wanna have coffee?”
“Sure -come on over! In fact,” added Donna, “It’s almost noon - why don’t we have lunch - my sister just sent me some photos of her little girl’s fifth birthday party. You have got to see how precious she is!”
“Great!” Lily replied, even though the sight of other people’s children caused her to churn with envy. “I’ll bring dessert - just give me a few minutes.” Lily hadn’t been able to finish her breakfast that morning. The first bite of white toast with butter seemed to scrape her insides all the way down, and she became immediately nauseated, a malady that was only exacerbated by the idea that Iris was sure to call today about Alex Bay. Lily still hadn’t figured out what to say to her. It would be better to be gone when she called.
Lily reached up into the overhead cupboard and retrieved a plastic box which she kept stocked with Rice Krispies treats. Not only did the gooey-sweet squares literally cost pennies a piece (she’d done the math), but Donna assumed she chose to keep a supply of them because they were her daughter Nikki’s favorite snack, and not because she couldn’t afford more.
Donna sat down on the picnic bench, her hefty round body causing it to sway in the middle. She removed the plastic wrap from a platter of sandwiches - tuna for her and Lily, and peanut butter and jelly for Nikki - all in halves, perfectly sliced on the diagonal.
Growing up with a brood of live-in playmates, Lily never felt confident in her skills for establishing relationships with other women. She wondered if she and Donna would have been friends under any other circumstances; she was grateful for this accident of proximity.
Lily flipped through the photographs of a little blond-haired girl in a pink tiara and tutu. “I don’t think I could ever move that far away from home like you did,” she said. “We’ve moved twice since we got married and I would be happy to stay here for the rest of my life. Or at least until our children are grown.”
“We go where the Lord leads us,” replied Donna, smiling broadly. Lily wondered how one could be led to move to Rochester by God. She knew the stories about how St. Joseph and St. Paul had dreams and visions where God spoke to them and told them what to do, but they were saints, and that was in the Bible, where God performed miracles all the time. Lily had to admit that the idea of getting instructions about how to deal with life directly from the Big Guy Himself sounded appealing right about now. She would ask Him how to help Joe get her pregnant. She heaved a deep sigh.
“Rough night?” Donna asked.
“Why do you ask?” Lily laughed nervously.
“No reason - you just look a little tired.” Donna’s gaze shifted, almost imperceptibly and for a split second, to a spot over Lily’s head and to the right, before landing back on Lily with a warm smile. She tucked a tuft of bleach-blond hair behind her right ear. “Let’s eat!” she said, with too much enthusiasm.
Confused and uneasy, Lily laid her napkin across her lap, took a sandwich triangle from the tray, and brought it to her mouth. Even if the bread came with lines scored on it, Lily wouldn’t be able to cut them so perfectly. Since you were just going to chew it up and swallow it anyway, it seemed like a waste to put so much energy into it.
“What do we do before we eat, Nikki?” said Donna.
“We pray,” said Nikki, in a tone that indicated that she was more irritated at the delay this would cause than she was delighted to have answered the question correctly.
Lily froze, her tuna sandwich half in her mouth, half out.
Donna bowed her head and placed her folded hands on her protruding belly. Lily placed the sandwich in her lap and bowed her head.
“Heavenly Father,” Donna began. “We thank you for this food. May it nourish our bodies so that we may be energized to serve You, Lord. Let us remember those who have no food today. We pray that they would turn from their ignorance and give You all glory and honor so that their lives may be healed. We pray in the name of Your only Son Jesus, our beloved Lord and Savior. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Lily and Nikki.
“Oh, here - let Mama get that for you.” Donna shoved a sandwich into her mouth, as Nikki struggled to use a small straw to punch through the perforated hole in her juice box.
Lily casually looked back over her shoulder in an attempt to discover where Donna’s gaze had been drawn, and from where they sat, just over the top of Lily’s tree, was her bedroom window, the screen still derailed. As she turned back around, she was met again with Donna’s gaze and a flash of pity, or embarrassment; she couldn’t tell which.
“I just don’t understand why your tuna tastes so wonderful,” said Lily, biting off the tip her sandwich. “I dress mine the exact same way, but it doesn’t taste this good.” A sense of panic rose in Lily, as she wondered how loud they had been the previous night. She made a mental note to close the window next time.
“Albacore,” said Donna, picking up another one from the tray; she bit off half, and washed it down with several gulps of Coke. “Packed in water. Instead of the chunk light tuna. It costs a little more, but it’s sweeter, and doesn’t have as much of a fishy taste.”
“Albacore?” said Lily, realizing that they were having a conversation that June Cleaver from “Leave it to Beaver” might have had. “Why didn’t anyone tell me there was more than one kind of tuna?”
“Now that you know,” said Donna, grabbing a handful of chips from a large glass bowl. “You can make it the same way. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to point you in the right direction.” Donna placed several chips into her mouth and looked directly at Lily with raised eyebrows as she chomped down.
Donna took the last sandwich from the tray and ate it in two bites. She wiped her mouth, cleared her throat, drained her glass of Coke and took a Rice Krispies treat from the box, tearing it in half between long pink acrylic fingernails. “Lily, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but the Lord has put it on my heart to talk to you about what happened at your house last night. I’m worried about you.”
No sense denying it, or pretending she didn’t know what Donna was referring to. Anyway, Donna was the closest thing Lily had to a friend, and she was not the kind of person who would let a lie go by.
“It’s no big deal, Donna, really, just a disagreement.”
“Sugar, a disagreement is when you want to order a pizza and he wants Chinese take-out.” Donna gestured toward Lily’s bedroom window. “What was going on up there last night was way more than a disagreement. I was sittin’ right here, and I saw a shoe come a-flying out that window. If it were the first time somethin’ like that has happened, I might not be buttin’ my nose in like this - but I know it’s not the first. Or even the fourth or fifth. You’d be surprised how much I hear of what goes on over at your house, Lily.”
The excuses and explanations Lily wanted to give scorched her throat, the heat rising into her face and finally releasing itself as tears that spilled down her cheeks.
Donna knit her brow and sidled over next to Lily. She put her arm around Lily’s shoulder. “There, there, darlin’,” she said. “Now you just go ahead and have yourself a little cry.” She began rocking them both back and forth, as Lily wept. “Jesus knows your pain, Lily. He died so that you might have hope. He wants to help you.” Donna chomped down on the Rice Krispies treat, and with a mouth full of rice cereal and marshmallow, she mumbled, “Won’t you let Him into your heart?”
9. Iris
“I found it!” Deirdre said, as soon as Iris picked up the phone.
“Found what?” Iris asked.
“The perfect job,” Deirdre said.
“What new career have you got your feisty little Irish heart set on this time?” Iris darted back into the kitchen, the handset cradled between her ear and shoulder, to stir the béchamel before lumps could form. Cordless phones were a great invention
.
“Don’t be daft, you’re the one always saying you’re bored with a part-time job and no babies and a husband who works late, not me!”
“Besides perfect, what kind of job is it?” The butter and flour and milk mixture bubbled over the low flame, thickening to perfection as Iris stirred it in quick, circular motions with a wooden spoon. She stirred twelve times in a clockwise direction (once for each Capotosti sibling, her usual way of counting things), then counterclockwise, before inverting again.
“Listen to this: ‘Luxury Riviera hotel seeks assistant manager. Applicants must have minimum three years experience in hospitality, strong background in sales and F&B, fluent English and second foreign language.’”
“So what exactly makes that perfect for me? The only qualification I have is fluent English. Me and about a billion other people.”
“I thought you said you spoke some French.”
“That was a zillion years ago, in high school.”
“You speak Italian.”
“Italian is not a foreign language when you live in Italy, Deirdre. Besides, I have no background in hospitality or sales, and I don’t even know what F&B is.”
“Food and beverage. I looked it up.”
“Well, I can’t see how I could have gotten that experience shuffling around musty files at Transoceanica.”
“Think back on your life, Iris. It’s all there!”
Iris turned off the flame and set the béchamel aside; she had already prepared the pesto, now she only had to boil the noodles. One of the things she appreciated most about Ligurian cuisine was the predominance of vegetables and herbs and the absence of heavy sauces, but adding a layer of white sauce to baked lasagna made the dish delicious. And it never failed to please the key players of the Policlinico hierarchy Iris had the honor of entertaining at the Leale table, whose level of simple elegance, creative fare and wine selection escalated in tandem with Gregorio’s ascension to the upper echelons of the medical profession.
“Look at all those fancy dinner parties you host,” Deirdre said. “And you could cook for a family of fourteen before you were as many years old. I call that solid food and beverage background.”
“And I call that pure imagination.”
“Everything qualifies as experience, Iris. It’s just a question of presenting it the right way. Besides, you have worked other jobs.”
“Yeah, at some of America’s finest dining establishments. So they should hire me on the spot because I hold the record for selling the most Egg McMuffins in the summer of ’75 and know what a monkey dish is?”
“How many beautiful, intelligent, English-speaking young women in the whole region of Liguria can say the same?”
“You Irish sure have a way with words.”
“But Iris, just imagine all the jet-setters you’d meet! People from all over the world go to that hotel.”
“Which hotel are we talking about, anyway?”
“I don’t know exactly which one, the name wasn’t in the ad. But it doesn’t matter, it’s in the area. And it has to be at least a four-star. Give it a try, come on!”
Iris did not have a clear vision of her future by any means, but she did know that she had learned all she cared to about the marine insurance business. She had dedicated far too much brain space to the storage of technical jargon; she was fed up with the sorry-looking clique of Transoceanica girls who snubbed her, and even her boss Elio Bacigalupo was really getting on her nerves lately whenever he opened his mouth to lecture her on his latest theory. Not only could she use a change, she would die if she didn’t get out of that place soon.
“You know, maybe I will take a shot at it,” Iris said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Two weeks after sending in her application, Iris was pleasantly surprised, though not totally astonished (she had invested considerable effort in the preparation of a convincing résumé) when she was contacted by the Grand Hotel Stella di Levante for a preliminary interview. Though she held little hope of being hired, she was curious to get inside the hotel just to see it, and to learn more about the job, so she might consider it as a possible future career option. She was received by the general manager himself, Fausto Parodini, a pinch-faced Ligurian with a hook nose, referred to simply as “il Direttore.” While they were reviewing her application in his office, a knock came on the door, which had been left slightly ajar.
“Scusate,” a voice said, peeking in the room. “Am I interrupting something?” The man’s voice exuded culture and class, and though its tone was one of cordial respect, Iris doubted it belonged to one of the Direttore’s underlings.
“No, Dottore, not at all! Venga! Venga! Come in, please, have a seat,” the Direttore answered, motioning to an empty chair as he rose to shake his hand in greeting, fumbling with the papers strewn about on his desk as he hastily grouped them into a stack. Iris was amused to notice how the Direttore’s stance had subtly but swiftly shifted from one of supreme authority, to that of subordinate, leading her to presume that the man could be none other than Claudio Olona, the owner of the hotel, whose name appeared on the brochure she had studied in the lobby. The Olona family had owned the property for four generations, ever since it had been converted from a belle époque gambling casino to a proper hotel during the early years of the twentieth century.
“I didn’t think you were arriving from Milan until this evening, Dottore. But since you’re here, may I introduce you to Iris Capotosti? She is here to interview for the job as my assistant.”
“Buongiorno, Dottoressa Iris Capotosti,” the gentleman said, nodding his head in greeting. He enunciated each syllable deliberately, as if sampling the taste of her name on his tongue. He did not move to shake her hand or seat himself in the empty chair, but stood at the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob, the thumb of the other hooked over the edge of a finely-stitched pocket. Even from where she sat, Iris could tell that the fabric of his trousers was of the highest quality wool; she ventured to guess it might be Tasmanian, possibly even Loro Piana. Pockets like those were not tailored to host the calloused hands of common men, nor to jingle with their loose change.
“Buongiorno, Dottore,” Iris replied, with a nod of her head and a polite smile. She hesitated briefly before adding, “Just Iris, please. Without the Dottoressa.” She disliked the overuse of titles in Italy, but not because she could not claim one for herself. She might as well let him know from the start that a fancy degree was not one of the qualifications she could bring to the job.
“Would you like to see her curriculum vitae, Dottore?” The Direttore asked, holding up a neatly typewritten sheet.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Direttore. If you’ve summoned her for an interview, you must consider her credentials suitable for the job, correct?” the owner said, never taking his eyes off of Iris. “Tell me about your accent. North American? Australian?”
“American. Upstate New York. A place not many people have heard of, called Rochester, not far from the Canadian border. Niagara Falls, that area. Between Buffalo and Syracuse.” Why did she feel obliged to give this obviously worldly gentleman a geography lesson?
“Of course! I know it well. I studied for my masters in Ithaca, after obtaining my degree from Glion, in Switzerland. I enjoyed the Finger Lakes immensely, especially in the autumn. Some rather palatable wines are actually coming out of the area now. I think a lovely young lady from upstate New York is exactly what the Stella di Levante needs. A touch of international class. Don’t you agree, Signora Iris?”
“Well, sure. If you think I can handle the job,” Iris replied, wishing she could learn to choose her spoken words with the same studied precision as her written words, and project less surprise and more self-assurance into her voice. The man had caught her off guard, though; she hadn’t expected the task of convincing the manager of her suitability to be miraculously and effortlessly lifted out of her hands; neither apparently had the nonplusssed Direttore, judging from the look of c
onfused deference on his face.
“A touch of international class,” Olona had said: she was thankful he could not see through her guise to the snot-nosed, scabby-kneed urchin who had to scrape bubble gum off the street if she wanted any at all. She was not yet sure whether she was more put off by the man’s condescending attitude, or curious to find out whether he was as intelligent and cultivated as he thought himself. One thing she was sure of: if he was offering her this challenge, she would do everything in her power to rise to it. She might not know all she needed to know now, but she’d pick up what she was lacking along the way, as she always did. In the meantime, she was convinced that Dottore Claudio Olona and his hotel would benefit from her unique satchel of skills, which couldn’t be summed up in one typewritten sheet.
“Then it’s settled,” he said, reaching to shake her hand. “Parodini will fill you in on the practical details. Welcome to the Grand Hotel Stella di Levante.”
That evening at dinner, Iris cracked open a bottle of Berlucchi rosé, her favorite spumante, to celebrate the news of her job with Gregorio, figuring that the more elated she looked, the harder it would be for him to voice the objections he was certain to raise. He couldn’t quite hide a grimace as he congratulated her on landing such a desirable position at one of the most prestigious hotels in the Riviera, and declined the flute she poured for him, preferring to stick with his favorite special occasion bubbly, San Pellegrino mineral water.
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