by Shirley Jump
Kick back in the recliner and count your blessings, life is damned good.
Chapter Thirteen
Early the next morning, before she headed to work, Maria's doorbell rang. "Couldn't take losing, could you?" Maria said as she pulled open the door, expecting Dante and finding—
Malcolm in the Middle.
"Are you Maria?" the kid said, his face all toothy and acne-riddled. He looked like he'd picked up his driver's license on the way over.
"Yes." She narrowed her gaze. She had ho weapons nearby, but then again, this skinny teen wasn't big enough to take her on. As a size almost-ten, she could take him, should he try anything funny like trying to commandeer her TV for a PlayStation party. "Why?"
He shifted from foot to foot, a blush creeping up his collar and blooming in pale cheeks, seeping into his blond hairline. "I hear you're looking for a man. And uh"—he drew himself up to his full five-foot-eight height, letting out a John Wayne-type gust of testosterone— "I’m a man. Well, almost. I'm eighteen in six weeks."
"Who told you—"
No. She wouldn't. She couldn't have.
The teenager gave her a smile that had given some orthodontist a Benz. "Gerry at Paulie's Grocery said you were pretty hard up. Being as old as you are and all."
"I am not old and I am not hard up," Maria said, her fingers tightening on the door. "And you can tell Gerry that if he helps my mother anymore, he'll get a zucchini up his—"
But Malcolm in the Middle was already gone. Maybe the impending wrinkles on her face had scared him away. It was either that or the thought of losing his virginity to a member of the squash family.
That night, as soon as she got off work, Maria headed over to her mother's house. She timed her arrival to miss the calories of dinner but still catch her mother in the kitchen, where she was easiest to pin down for a conversation.
"Mamma, this has to stop," Maria said.
Biba hurried around her kitchen, stacking dinner dishes in the sink, then filling it with soapy water. Nonna stood to the left, drying the finished plates. "Stop what?" Mamma asked, all innocent
"Trying to marry me off like I'm some reject from a leper colony."
"I am not."
"Then why did a seventeen-year-old boy show up on my doorstep this morning, offering to take this 'old lady' out for a spin?"
From her place by the sink, Nonna snickered.
"I did nothing," Mamma said. "All I did was talk to Mary Louise Zipparetto's mamma in the checkout line. Maybe some snoop overheard."
Mary Louise Zipparetto. Everything bad in Maria's life could be traced back to that one name.
"Did you say anything to Gerry?" she asked.
"I only make conversation." Mamma scrubbed at the plates in the sink. "It's rude not to talk to the bag boy. He packs my bags so nice. Cans always on the bottom."
"He does a good job," Nonna piped up. "Never an egg broken."
"Mamma, I don't need you advertising for a husband for me when you redeem your double coupons."
"I'm only helping."
"Why won't you listen to me?" Maria sighed and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. "I am not going to get married. Ever."
Mamma clasped her hands over her ears, soap dripping from her fingers and onto her shoulders. Then she dropped one hand to her chest and made the sign of the cross, fast and furious. "The devil has ears, you know."
Maria rolled her eyes. "Mamma, all single people do not go to hell."
Mamma choked back a sob and laid a rooster serving bowl carefully into the sink, sniffling as she did. "Never will I hear the laugh of my grandchildren."
"And never smell the diaper of one, either. Che puzza!" Nonna pinched her nose. "Those plastic ones hold a lot of stink."
Clearly, she wasn't getting anywhere here. Maria left the kitchen to go farther up the chain of command.
"You should marry a good Italian boy," Papa said, settling into his worn black leather La-Z-Boy and flinging out the recliner base like a warrior girding up for couch potato battle. "Like your mamma did."
"Papa, I'm not interested in getting married."
"Biba! Bring me a beer." Papa grabbed up the remote and turned on ESPN. "Why the hell not?"
"I'm happy alone. I call my own shots."
"Take out your own trash. Change your own oil." Papa flicked the channels, running through every sports show known to mankind in a fifteen-second blitz. "Sleep alone in your bed. And die alone, too, with no children around to wipe the drool off your chin."
"I also come home when I want. Spend what I want. Answer to no one but me."
Her mother bustled in with an open Samuel Adams and a glass. She put them down on the metal TV tray beside Papa, smack dab in the center of the impressionist painting of Boston Common. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the butt. "Grazie."
Mamma smiled at Papa, gave Maria the cold, you've-disappointed-me-again shoulder, then headed back to dishes and dinner cleanup. As long as Maria could remember, it had been this way. Dinner was served precisely at six. Papa would get home from his shift at the phone company, eat, murmur his appreciation, then retreat to the recliner for a beer and the game. Didn't matter what team or what sport—he watched them all until the beer kicked in and he fell asleep in the chair. When Mamma finished cleaning up, she'd work on her quilting for a while, then nudge him awake so the two of them could climb the stairs to bed.
Not the life of romance and passion Maria wanted. That kind of predictability would make her run screaming and naked down the Callahan Tunnel.
She'd almost fallen into that trap with David and learned pretty damned quick she wasn't cut out for "married life." Especially when he'd slept with that stripper on her dining room table. If that's what being committed to someone was like, she'd much rather be committed.
Papa took a swig of beer, ignoring the glass. Mamma always brought him the glass, and he always ignored it. It was as if Mamma hoped someday he'd grow into civilized behavior.
"What Mamma and I have is good," he said. "Like pasta and gravy. It goes together, and doesn't give you too much heartburn." He tipped the bottle in her direction, Sam Adams nodding agreement
"Nothing against you and Mamma, but I just don't want what you have."
"You're breaking your mamma's heart." Papa scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering her, the Celtics temporarily forgotten. "A girl who says she doesn't want to get married either goes into the convent or starts wearing those army shoes. You know..." He lowered his head, hinting at an answer he didn't supply.
"No, I don't. What are you talking about?"
"Those type of girls wear the boots because they're buttering their toast on the wrong end of the loaf."
Maria let out an exasperated sigh. "Just because I don't want to get married doesn't make me a lesbian."
Papa leaned back in his chair, the beer back at his lips. "Just as long as you're shopping in the right bakery."
Mamma hurried in again, this time with a rooster-decorated plate of biscotti. She put them on the tray, then topped the dessert delivery with another peck on Papa's cheek. "Dessert for you."
"Ah, you always know what I like." He kissed her back. "See, this is marriage," he said to Maria. "Two people who know each other so well, they never have to say a word."
"Except..." Mamma quirked a brow.
"Ti amo. " Papa grinned and gave her another kiss.
She whispered the same words back, holding his gaze for a long, private second, then left, still avoiding her disappointing daughter.
Maria tried not to grimace as Papa dove for his nightly beer and almond cookies snack. The combination was disgusting, but Papa had the stomach of a goat and never seemed to notice the odd juxtaposition of sweets and hops.
A second later, her grandfather followed the scent of the cookies down the stairs and into the living room. Nonno took the seat opposite the TV tray, grabbing a couple of cookies from the plate. "You watching the game?" he asked Maria.
"Nah. We're ta
lking about Maria not wanting to get married."
"Ah." Nonno nodded. "Has your mother made the soup yet?"
The damned soup again. "I'm not going to get married just because of something I ate."
Her grandfather shrugged. "Your Nonna's mamma, she made me the soup. I proposed the next day." He nodded. "The soup, it works."
Maria lowered herself to her knees beside her father's recliner. "Papa, you have to talk to Mamma for me. She won't listen to a word I say and she keeps trying to fix me up with Dante. Not to mention every single man under the age of eighty in the North End."
"I remember him, the day he come to see you. He seemed like a good man, that Dante," Nonno said. They don't grow on clotheslines, you know."
Papa changed the channel again. "Damn! You idiot! Get that shot, you—"
"Papa!" Maria waited until her father's attention left the Knicks and came back to her. "She's getting desperate now. She told Gerry, the checkout boy at Paulie's Grocery, to keep an eye out for a husband for me."
"Your mamma cares about you." Papa slammed his beer down on the table. Sam spewed a few drops across the metal surface. "Merita! What's that coach doing? Sleeping?"
Maria ignored the rhetorical question and pressed on. She'd had no luck getting through to her mother. Her grandfather seemed to be on Dante's side, and Nonna had never been able to convince Mamma to do anything. Papa was her last resort
When Papa laid down the law, it stayed there, like a road of steel. If he told Mamma to back off, she would.
There were, Maria had to admit, some advantages to a traditional Italian marriage. Though she'd never opt for one, not if it meant being a chicken under a rooster who couldn't be bothered to peck up his own kernels.
"Papa, Gerry is seventeen. Mamma gave him my address. Every senior from Sacred Heart has been at my door this week, asking me to the prom."
"You'd look nice with a corsage," Nonno said.
"Mamma means well," Papa changed the channel, this time settling on a boxing match. "Madonn! Get off the ropes! You have the brains of a flea!"
"Papa. Papa!"
He flicked a glance at her. "What?"
"You have to talk to her. I don't need her help finding a husband. I don't even want a husband."
"Jab! Use your jab! No. The right! Get him with your right!" Her father's face had started to turn red.
"Your blood pressure," Maria warned. "Remember what the doctor said."
Papa scoffed. "That doctor should watch Lennox Lewis once in a while. Then he'd see why I have high blood pressure." He punched a fist forward. "Uppercut! Get the chin!"
"Papa, about Mamma—"
"Your mamma means well," Nonno said. "And she knows you better than you know yourself."
"Get off the ropes!"
Maria rose. It was no use. "I'm going now. Enjoy the fight." She turned to leave.
Papa grabbed her arm. "I'll talk to your mamma," he said. "But it won't do any good."
"Why?"
"Because she's right. Your mamma's a smart woman. A very smart woman." He nodded. "And she knows what's good for you."
Maria shook her head. "Marriage is not what's good for me."
Mamma hurried in with a second beer, made her delivery, then went back to her kitchen.
Papa picked up the frosty new Sam Adams with his free hand and took a sip. He kicked back a little farther in the recliner and replaced the beer with the remote again. "I don't know why not. It's pretty damned good to me."
Franco's Deception-in-One-Dish Milanese Veal Chops
2 ounces pancetta, cubed
1/4 cup unsalted butter
4 veal cutlets, tender like a lying tongue
1/4 cup bread crumbs, as fine as your tall tale will be
Salt and pepper
1 cup dry white wine, to soothe the lies on your palate
1 onion, minced
1 carrot, minced
1 celery stalk, minced
2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped
1/2 cup chicken broth, clear as your conscience
Lemon wedges
Cook the pancetta in the butter until golden brown and magnifico. Dredge the veal in the bread crumbs. Shake off the messy extra. No need to clutter your mouth with clumps. Brown the veal in the pan, then season with salt and pepper.
All the while, cook up an interessante story to bring two lonely hearts together. You aren't lying, you are ... creating a happy ending. It's a good thing.
Remove the veal to make room for the vino. Deglaze the pan with wine, then cook the onion, carrot and celery until the onion is as gold as the halo over your head for doing such a good deed for your friends.
Bring the veal back and marry it with the vegetables. Add the tomatoes, cover and let everything be happy together for oh ... an hour and a quarter or so. Long enough to come up with a story to send one running into the arms of the other. Your swans will find each other across the pond because the power of amore is stronger than a silly, stubborn mind. Be sure to check on it from time to time, adding a tablespoon of the chicken broth or so, to keep your sauce from drying up.
Serve hot, with lemon wedges for a little tartness. Like your lies, this dish has layers of truth beneath the surface. When they dig in, they find it. And they find each other, in their happy smiles.
And everyone will say Franco, he was right.
Chapter Fourteen
Franco bustled around the tables, straightening place settings, fixing the flowers in the vases and tilting candles upright. "We miss something."
"What?" Dante looked up from the table where he sat planning the next few nights' menus and specials. And trying not to think about the unfinished business between Maria and him.
For nearly two weeks, he'd left her alone. Hadn't even checked to see if she was across the street. He'd thought after what had happened in her apartment, and on the church steps, that she'd make a move next, because he'd left all his balls in her court.
But—
"A sweet. We need something sweet."
Yeah, he needed a sweet. Another sweet kiss like the one he'd started—and like an idiot, not finished—in her apartment. He'd thought he'd be leaving her with something to think about. A few regrets, a steam of desire. Instead he'd left himself in a constant state of agony.
He shifted in his seat and went back to the menu.
"We have desserts on the menu," Dante said, wishing Franco would go away and leave him to his misery. "I was thinking of adding a walnut and ricotta cake to—"
"No, no." Franco waved a hand at him. "Something... ma petite." He pinched his fingers together.
Dante eyed the maître d. Franco rarely gave input on the menu. In fact, Franco was usually pretty content to stick to his job up front and leave the rest to everyone else. All of a sudden, he was spouting dessert ideas? "What have you got cooking?"
"Me?" Franco raised a brow and shrugged a shoulder. "I cannot cook."
"You have something in mind, though. Quit dancing and tell me what it is."
Franco directed his gaze at the place settings instead of his boss, as if perfecting the flair of the napkins was infinitely more important. "I know a shop that makes perfect little cookies. Just right for an after dinner delight."
Dante considered this. "Instead of mints? Or chocolates like the other restaurants do?"
Franco nodded. "A little Vita Deliziosa to go."
Dante nodded, then went back to the menu, crossing out the fish for Tuesday and substituting a veal. Carlo's Fish Market hadn't been up to its usual freshness standard, not since Carlo had gone on the lam in Italy with the maid. While wrapping a swordfish—and nearly beating the poor dead pesce spada into unrecognizability with the plastic wrap machine—the usurped wife had told Dante she'd be gunning for Carlo with a tuna as soon as he landed at Logan. Until Dante could find a new fishmonger—or Carlo solved his two-honey housekeeping mess—Dante was going to stick to non-swimming menu items.
Above his shoulder, he could feel
Franco waiting for an answer. "I’ll look into it."
"No need to think." A box appeared in front of him, open to reveal several chocolate thumbprint cookies that had raspberry jam in their centers. The scent of the jam wafted up to greet him, teasing at him to take a bite. "Try."
Dante sighed and pushed the menu to the side. "Persistent, aren't you?"
Franco didn't answer.
It certainly wouldn't hurt to eat one. He hadn't had time for breakfast or lunch yet today. Dante put his pen down and picked up a cookie, taking a taste. "Not bad. Where'd you get them?"
"Oh, nowhere." Franco fluffed at a carnation in the center of the table.
Dante closed the lid on the box. Imprinted in gold script were the words "Gift Baskets to Die For." Franco was a matchmaker with all the stealth of an elephant trying to sneak up on a kitten. "Maria's shop?"
"Oh? Is that who works there?" He fluttered a finger at the flower's tip.
"She co-owns it."
"Interessante!"
"Franco, you're the worst liar I know."
"Franco does not lie." He bustled over to the front desk and straightened the pile of menus. "Much," he added in a mumble.
Dante took another nibble of the cookie. "They are good."
Franco bustled back. "The best."
"They would make good thank-you gifts for our customers," Dante said.
"Magnifico." Franco kissed the tips of his fingers.
"And I do know one of the owners."
"And you have to see her many times to work on these. To make them perfect." He grinned.
"You never give up, do you?"
"Me?" Franco took a cookie from the box and bit into it. "I like cookies, nothing more." Then he walked away, humming a Dean Martin song under his breath.
Dante returned to his menu but his mind was no longer on the Milanese Veal Chops. He tossed the pen to the table and got to his feet. Franco was right, though damned if Dante was going to admit it and eat crow for a month.
It was time to add a little sweetness to his Vita.
