Eunice halted her arm. Three pasta makers were attached to one counter—pasta makers that came with the house, well used but in prime condition—and she turned the crank on one to produce long sheets of creamy dough. She placed a floured hand on my arm, leaving behind the ghost of her touch.
The scent of grease wafted in the thick air; Apollonia had the cannoli wafers rolling in the fryer. Carmen busied herself with making flower arrangements for the outside terrace, cream roses to accent the light blue tablecloth. She had a few lemons on the side, intending to use them as embellishments on the table.
A mental note flashed through my mind: Brando could grill the beef I had been marinating on the stone grill outside when he got home. Glancing out the window—if he got home in time.He was stubborn and wouldn’t let Livio lose Santina without exhausting himself. In other words, I had no ideawhenI would see him again.
In truth, I was biding my time, busying myself and thinking other thoughts in light of what my mother had said. After I had hugged her by Matteo’s garden, after Brando and I had returned from Fiji, we were still us, but something had shifted. The problem was that I didn’t know if we became closer or had fallen two steps behind.
Physical contact was rare for us. The times we attempted to connect on a deeper level, as mother and daughter, were even scarcer. I was closer to Maggie Beautiful, though sometimes I wondered which of us was the mother figure. Still, I truly felt Maggie Beautiful’s love on a deep level. All I could see was pride in my mother’s eyes when someone complimented me, or her, on my talent.
Despite the distance, though, she lowered her guard, so I decided to give it a try. “I’m glad,” I said finally, “that you decided to come. How long are you staying?”
Charles made a noise in his bassinet, and I peeked in on him. Charlotte was not resigned to leave us alone yet. She sat at the table, head down, blonde hair fanned out, resting her eyes.
“A while. There is another reason for this visit. A reason that will please you.”
At this, Charlotte’s head popped up, but not all the way. Her eyes were wide, blinking like an owl.
“Oh?” I said cautiously, opening the cabinet in search of a bag of hazelnuts.
My mother had a habit of making me feel, then turning around and slapping me in the soft spot.
She rose from her seat at the table and came to stand next to Eunice. She took a piece of displaced dough between her fingers, staring at it. For all that my mother was, she was no cook, nor was she exactly maternal. We had Eunice, and during the busiest times, countless help around the house. My mother had grown up in a similar fashion; Maja continued to dance even after she had retired. The countless events she attended kept her glamorous, graceful, and in the spotlight.
Pnina Poésy’s house was a tightly run ship, just as Maja’s had been. We had tutors from all around the world and teachers who could speak seven different languages, though all three of us had gone to public school at some point to be able to get out and socialize with people our age. We had strict bedtimes and morning calls. We had to abide by a rigorous schedule—me more than my siblings—and a strict diet, though I was the only one who had to follow the latter.
There were times when my mother looked at me, truly looked at me, and I knew she wondered where I had come from. It was hard to believe that I came from her. Maja? Yes, because our movements were so similar that they could be timed to almost the second. And I looked like Maja, in certain lights.
My mother and sister favored each other. Elliott looked a bit like them as well, though my father came through his features more than the rest. I did inherit sparks of my father’s auburn hair, though, which mixed with dark chestnut.
If my mother and sister favor each other, then do they favor Matteo’s side of the family?
A sigh came from my mother’s mouth before she flicked the dough at the sink. She reached out and touched my hair. I froze. She tucked a few strands that broke free from my low bun behind my ear.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” she said, smiling. “The natural center part makes you seem old-worldly, yet you exist in this time and fit in. I wonder if you get that from Matteo’s side?”
I shrugged, not sure what else to do or how to react. Charlotte looked on in a daze. The other women occasionally glanced our way but mostly kept their attention on the food and decorations.
“I have been in touch with a woman named Monica Attigliano. She is the niece of Matteo. She is my—my cousin. Her mother, Countess Sibilla, is Matteo’s sister. She is still alive.”
“A countess?”
Apollonia lifted a thick brow at this. “Sangue reale? Qual'è il tuo cognome?”Royal blood? What is your family name?
“Ballerini,” my mother and I answered together.
“Sì,” Apollonia said, eyebrows almost touching her hairline. “I have heard of them. Matteo is the world-famous painter, no? Monica Attigliano is,ah, one of the most beautiful women. High society. Have you seen her?”
I shook my head and my mother answered no.
“Is it possible to see two people in one person, do you think?” Apollonia wiped her hands on her apron. She had been preparing a medley of summer vegetables—yellow and red bell peppers, carrots, zucchini, and green beans—to steam. She carried the chopped veggies over to the stove, removing pots to fill with water.
All of the women in the kitchen stared after her, not sure what she had meant and waiting for her to expand on her comment.
She laughed. “I have seen pictures of yournonna, Scarlett, the famed ballerina. You resemble her, of course. There is something of Monica in you, as well. You will see.” She waved a dismissive hand. “The resemblance is in the shape of the eye. They are,ah,felino.Feline. You share the shape of her face, as well. But her hair is raven black, and her cheekbones are not as pronounced as yours.”
If curiosity was my alter ego, it took over then. “What did she say?” I turned to my mother. “How did she sound? Was she friendly? How were you able to get in touch with a countess? Does she want to see us?Doessheknow?”
My mother told me to basically slow my roll in Slovenian.
