If the Ring Fits...

by Jackie Braun

  He swung his feet over the side of the mattress and sat up. This wasn’t the sort of call one took lying down.

  “Mama, Mama. Calm yourself. It is not what you are thinking,” he began.

  “Are you telling me that you are not involved with this woman? She is in your home, Tony. Right now. Along with boxes and boxes of her belongings! You are living with a woman!”

  Even though he couldn’t see Lucia, Tony knew his mother was gesturing wildly with her arms. Under other circumstances, he might have chuckled, but Lucia wasn’t in the mood to find humor in this.

  “Her name is Rachel Palmer—”

  “She introduced herself as Rachel Preston. Preston, Tony. Not Palmer. Non ci porro credere! You don’t even know her name! You are living with a woman and you don’t even know her name!”

  “I know her name.” Although the Preston bit came as a surprise. Maiden name, most likely, and she was opting to go back to it, which was what he told his mother now. That proved the verbal equivalent of throwing kerosene on a roaring bonfire.

  “She is divorced?” His mother’s voice rose several octaves on the two-syllable word.

  “She is. It is not a crime, Mama. One in two marriages end in divorce.”

  “Not when you take your vows seriously,” Lucia replied. “Is she Catholic?”

  Uh-oh. Talk of vows, whether taken or untaken, was not a direction he wanted to go, especially when religion was being thrown into the mix.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You donna know?”

  “Her faith has never come up in our conversations, which have centered primarily on business,” Tony stressed.

  As soon as he said it, guilt nipped, since lately that wasn’t true. Indeed, if his mother were privy to his earlier conversation with Rachel, she would be chastising him for lying.

  As it was, Lucia uttered a quick prayer to the Blessed Mother and then wailed, “Oh, Tony! If she is Catholic, you are living in sin with a divorced woman. You may as well be committing adultery. It is the same thing.”

  He pictured Lucia crossing herself. In the eyes of his devout mother, Rachel’s marriage would only be considered null and void if she sought and was granted an annulment through the Church.

  “Mama, I am not living with Rachel,” he began patiently. “I am in Rome. Rachel is staying at my house. You will notice that those boxes and boxes of belongings are in the guest room. That is because she is a guest.”

  Guilt nipped again, this time with a little more bite. But at least his mother sounded slightly mollified. Her tone was no longer shrill when she said, “I did notice that the boxes were in the guest room.”

  “So you understand?” He began to relax. He should have known better.

  “I am not a fool, Tony. The boxes may be in the guest room, but she is in your bathtub! Or at least she was when I walked in there. And she was naked!” Lucia added unnecessarily.

  The mental image Tony had done his damnedest to forget for the past hour was back in full living color. Tony caught himself before he could groan.

  “Should she have been wearing a swimsuit?”

  “You no get smart with me, Antonio Rafael.” He might be a grown man, but his mother wasn’t one to tolerate back talk regardless of his age, as her use of his middle name clearly showed.

  “I am sorry, Mama. I only mean to point out that one usually takes a bath without clothing.”

  “But if she is a guest, why is she in the tub in your suite? Hmm? Tell me that.”

  “Because it is nicer. And larger. And it has a fireplace and music,” he said.

  “You have answers for everything,” Lucia muttered. “Same as when you were a little boy. You have always been good at talking yourself out of trouble.”

  His mother sighed then, a signal that she’d given up. At least for now. He knew better than to believe she wouldn’t revisit this topic. Several more times. She could be as tenacious as a pit bull.

  “Where is Rachel now?”

  “How am I to know? I left her alone.”

  “But you are still at my house.”

  “I am. Downstairs. I am in your neglected kitchen putting your fancy stove to use. I am making marinara. You have several fat tomatoes that are ready to go bad. And I have pulled out your pasta machine. I had to wipe off a thick layer of dust, but I think it still works.”

  Even though he wished she had gone home to her own kitchen to do it, Tony couldn’t help smiling. His mother cooked whenever she was upset or worried or experiencing any one of a dozen other emotions. After his father died, Lucia had made enough fresh pasta and her signature marinara to feed all of Florence. For a week. Though he’d only been a young boy at the time, he remembered too well her sadness and the helplessness he’d felt when he could offer no real comfort, in part because he was grieving himself.

  Everyone kept saying, “You are the man of the house now, Antonio.”

  Men fixed things. But his mother’s heart, much like their lives, had seemed beyond repair. Then Paolo Russo came along. Tony respected his stepfather. But it was because Paolo had made Lucia smile again that Tony had been willing to accept him into their lives and hand over the reins.

  “She is too skinny.”

  His mother’s muttered words pulled him from his thoughts. Tony agreed with her assessment. Rachel had always been slender, but she was even thinner now, most likely the result of all of the emotional upheaval she’d endured. But he knew in addition to trying to fatten up Rachel, his mother was going to grill her. Mercilessly. Before Lucia was done, Rachel would feel more exposed than she must have felt when his mother interrupted her bath. He needed to try to talk his mother out of it.

  He cleared his throat, a sound she apparently took as agreement, because she continued, “All of the women you date are too skinny. At least from the pictures I have seen. Pictures, Antonio. I never get to meet any of them. Not since Kendra.”

  And he had worried about Rachel. He was still in the hot seat.

  “You know why that is, Mama,” he said softly.

  His mother had become very attached to the woman he’d almost married. In the end, Tony’s heart hadn’t been the only casualty. He’d never made that mistake again, no matter how much Lucia or his sister pestered him.

  Lucia muttered something he couldn’t quite make out, which he figured was for the best. It probably wasn’t anything he wanted to hear anyway.

  “Don’t stay too long, Mama. And, please, don’t make a habit of dropping in unannounced. Rachel is using my home now and is entitled to her privacy. What were you doing at my house anyway?” he asked. To lighten the mood, he added, “Were you thinking of putting my tub to good use?”

  Lucia made a dismissive sound. “I came to clean out your refrigerator. That is how I knew about the perfectly good tomatoes that would soon go to waste.”

  “I have people I can pay to clean out my refrigerator for me.”

  “Yes.” Her seeming agreement didn’t last long. “You also have a mother who considers it no trouble at all.”

  And who probably saw it as a good opportunity to get in a little snooping.

  “So, what are you making?” Tony figured he could judge the length of Lucia’s stay based on what she was planning to put in the oven.

  “Lasagna. I am preparing the tomatoes for the sauce as we speak.”

  And she’d said the pasta would be made from scratch, too. Tony stifled a groan. His mother was going to be there for hours.

  * * *

  Rachel paced around the boxes in her room, debating what to do next. She wasn’t sure who the woman was who had burst into the bathroom. They hadn’t exactly had a chance to exchange greetings. Rachel had screamed and, in her attempt to cover herself, had knocked the bottle of champagne off the ledge of the tub. No need to worry about popping the cork. The bottle had shattered. Champagne had splattered. After demanding to know Rachel’s identity, the older woman had shouted something in what sounded like Italian, and stormed out.
<
br />   Was she still in the house?

  Rachel didn’t know. She’d gotten out of the tub, carefully picked her way through the worst of the glass and spilled sparkling wine, and now was in her room, dressed in the same boring clothes she’d vowed to burn, pacing the floor and wondering what she should do next.

  If the woman still was downstairs, and if she was a relative of Tony’s—please, God, don’t let it be his mother—she was entitled to an explanation, not to mention an introduction that consisted of more than a bloodcurdling scream and a shouted name. Besides, Rachel needed to clean up the mess she’d made in the bathroom.

  She followed the sounds of clanking pans and soaring opera music to the kitchen. Swallowing the worst of her nerves, she entered. The older woman stood at the island. A dish towel was tucked around her waist and she’d pushed up the sleeves of her blouse to her elbows. She was rolling out dough on the flour-dusted granite top. She looked up and stopped what she was doing when she saw Rachel. She didn’t smile, exactly. In fact, she looked quite formidable. It didn’t help that she was wielding a fat wooden rolling pin.

  “Hello. I’m a friend of Tony’s.”

  “Yes, I know. I called my son.” Son. Uh-oh. “Rachel Preston, as you said. Or Rachel Palmer, according to Tony.”

  “It’s Palmer for now, but I will be changing it back to Preston. Tony was kind enough to let me stay here until the renovation work on my new place is done.”

  “You are a house guest.” The older woman nodded. “He told me that, too.”

  “Oh.” Not sure what else to say, Rachel fell silent.

  “If you are looking for a mop, I think you will find it in the storage closet in the laundry room.”

  “Mop. Right. Thank you.”

  The older woman’s expression softened a little. “I should apologize for barging in on you. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be home. I heard the music and I thought that Tony might have left it on by accident.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “We have not been properly introduced. I am Lucia Russo.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Russo.”

  “Lucia, please. There is no need for such formality between us.”

  “Lucia,” Rachel repeated.

  “And I don’t believe you, by the way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The corners of a mouth very much like Tony’s turned up in a smile. “I do not think that you think it is so nice to meet me. I gave you quite a start earlier.”

  “A little,” Rachel admitted. She took a step closer to the island. “What is it that you’re making?”

  “Lasagna.” She started to work again with the rolling pin.

  Rachel’s gaze strayed to the stove top where something was already simmering in a pan, to a chopping block where cloves of garlic and onion had already been minced and chopped, and then back to Lucia. “From scratch?”

  “Is there any other way?” The older woman’s challenge was issued with another smile.

  “I’ve never made pasta from scratch, let alone an entire pan of lasagna.” She decided it best not to admit the only lasagna she’d ever eaten at home had come premade and frozen.

  “It is not so hard once you learn,” Lucia replied as she rolled out more dough. “Come back when you have cleaned up the broken glass. I will show you how.”

  Rachel did as she was told. Tony’s mother did not look like the kind of woman who took no for an answer, but that wasn’t the only reason she returned downstairs twenty minutes later. She was curious—about Lucia and Tony and, yes, how to make lasagna. Rachel was a decent cook, though much of what she knew she’d learned on her own. Susan Preston hadn’t had either the time or the energy to cook from scratch while raising two girls alone.

  “Put this around your waist as an apron,” Lucia said, handing Rachel a dishcloth as soon as she entered the kitchen. “So skinny,” she muttered while Rachel did as instructed.

  Then it began: Rachel’s tutorial in Italian cooking. Lucia moved with both grace and efficiency between the island and the stove. In a large pot on the front burner, chopped onions were starting to caramelize in olive oil. The tomatoes, which had been peeled and seeded, sat in a glass bowl near to the stove. An assortment of spice jars were next to it.

  “I will teach you how to make a good marinara. This was my mother’s recipe, handed down to her from her mother. It is a basic sauce that can be fancied up with other ingredients as one sees fit.” Lucia smiled. “It is what you might call the little black dress of sauces.”

  She made more small talk as she showed Rachel the proper way to skin and mince cloves of garlic. Once they were added to the pot with the onion, Lucia began opening jars of dried spices and the inquest began.

  Lucia was subtle at first. As she shook some oregano into the palm of her hand, she said, “Tony tells me you are waiting for an apartment to become ready.”

  “Yes. It’s over the jewelry store I own downtown. Unfortunately, my house sold before the renovations were complete.”

  Lucia tossed the oregano in the pot and shook out a similar amount of sweet basil into her hand. “The house where you lived while married?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucia hummed, tossed in the basil and picked up the thyme. “What is the name of the church where you were married?”

  “Actually, we got married at City Hall.”

  “Not very romantic,” Lucia commented, but she looked relieved as she measured out dried rosemary.

  “No, it wasn’t all that romantic, but it seemed practical at the time.” Eager to change the subject, Rachel motioned to the spice jars. “How do you know how much to add of each one?”

  “After so many years, I just know.” Lucia pursed her lips in consideration. “I guess for a batch of sauce this size I would figure on about two tablespoons in total. I add more basil than rosemary, but that is my preference. You will have to decide for yourself.”

  Even before Rachel had a chance to make a mental note of that, Lucia was saying, “But now you want romance.”

  “I—” Was that Tony’s appeal? The more she got to know him, the less she thought so. “I’m not sure what I want,” Rachel answered honestly.

  Lucia nodded and seemed satisfied. “If you use fresh herbs, you would not add them yet. You would need to wait until just before serving. They would lose too much of their flavor otherwise.”

  “Dried herbs early, fresh ones later.”

  The smells emanating from the pot had Rachel’s mouth threatening to water. It went dry just as fast when, without warning, Lucia asked, “Do you think my son is handsome?”

  “T-Tony?”

  Lucia tapped the spatula against the inside of the pot to free it of bits of onion. “I only have one son.”

  How to answer that question except with the truth? “Too handsome.”

  Lucia’s robust laughter filled the kitchen. “His father was the same way. Tony takes after him, not only in appearance but in here.” Lucia patted her ample bosom. “He is a good man.”

  “I agree.”

  Lucia reached for an opened bottle of red wine. After adding some to the pot, she filled a glass for herself.

  “Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Tony also is generous,” Lucia remarked.

  “Exceptionally so when it comes to women.” Rachel felt heat creep up her neck to her cheeks. What a thing to say! Especially since she was staying rent-free at his home. She backtracked. “What I mean is, I’ve designed jewelry for so many of his girlfriends.”

  Oh, that was much better. Rachel grimaced and clamped her lips closed. Good heavens! Every time she opened her mouth and spoke, she wound up digging herself a deeper hole. She might as well have called him a jet-setting playboy right to his mother’s face. It was a description that not all that long ago Rachel would have thought fit. Now…

  Lucia, however, didn’t look the least bit offended. Indeed, the older woman sighed heavily and stirred t
he contents of the pot again.

  “Now it is time to add the tomatoes I skinned and chopped earlier.”

  “It already smells wonderful.

  “It is far from finished. Patience is required in cooking, and in many other things, to achieve the desired result.” She sent Rachel a meaningful look. “This sauce will need to simmer for a couple of hours in order to bring out the flavor of the spices.”

  “That long, hmm?” Which meant the inquest would continue.

  “Do not worry. We have plenty to do. In the meantime, you and I will finish making the pasta.”

  They were back at the granite-topped island. Lucia patted an odd-looking appliance. It appeared brand-new. Its stainless-steel finish gleamed and showed nary a fingerprint.

  Lucia’s tone made it clear she was not impressed.

  “This is Tony’s fancy pasta maker. It has a motor. I prefer the old-fashioned one I have owned for nearly forty years. I crank it myself. No need for electricity. And I think the pasta tastes just as good if not better.” She shrugged. “But we will make do with this one.”

  As Rachel helped to feed the thinly rolled dough into the machine, Lucia continued talking.

  “This is a nice kitchen, no?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Tony rarely eats in here. And why would he? He is a bachelor. I only hope I will live long enough to see my son settled down with the right woman.” In the same breath, Lucia added, “So, your marriage, it did not work out.”

  Rachel nearly dropped the thinly rolled dough she was feeding into the pasta machine. “No.”

  “Your divorce, it was recent?”

  “It was final last month.” She heard herself add, “But it was over long before then.”

  “No children?”

  “No.”

  “You do not want children?”

  Caught in the crosshairs, Rachel sputtered, “I…um, sure. That is, someday.”

  “You are not getting any younger.”

  “So my mother tells me.”

  “That is because she wants grandchildren,” Lucia said on a nod. “You hope to marry again, then?”