‘He probably doesn’t want to admit to you that he’s beginning to slow down. Now, my Aldo, he was in denial like that…’
Stella nodded and smiled politely, forcing herself to make appropriate comments as Signora Togliatti chitchatted away about the old days. At last, the old woman departed. Stella closed her eyes for a few seconds, grounding herself. She put away her notebook and the measuring tape. The general store would never turn over enough to keep three of them. She wasn’t going to build a business; she was just playing shops. There was no future for her here.
* * *
Stella locked up and pulled down the shop shutters. Signora Togliatti hadn’t gone far. She was standing on the other side of the road in a patch of shade, leaning on her stick, her free hand gesturing as she spoke. A young woman stood nodding along, her little boy grizzling and pulling at her skirt. Judging by the woman’s body language, he wasn’t the only one desperate to get away. Signora Togliatti made one last gesture, turned and trudged off towards home. She probably wouldn’t speak to another soul all day. Stella snapped out of her self-pity. Domenico was looking forward to seeing her and tonight she would be in Gino’s arms. She was lucky. Whatever the future held.
Stella strolled back to her uncle’s house and opened the front door. The scent of garlic frying wafted from the kitchen. Domenico was leaning over the stove.
‘What are you doing?’ She’d been all prepared to serve up a lunch of cheese and cold meats.
‘Just making some tomato sauce. And don’t fuss, I’m quite capable. You need a proper meal if you’re working all day and no offence, Stella, but these picnics we’ve been having…’ He waved a hand towards the fridge.
‘I’m not complaining.’ After the signora’s bombshell, comfort food was just what she needed.
‘I’ll throw in the pasta now you’re back.’ He tipped the end of a packet of spaghetti into a huge pot. A froth of bubbles rose and subsided.
‘Are you sure you should…?’
Domenico silenced her with a look. ‘I’ll be back in my shop in a few days.’
‘I hear you’re getting some help soon.’ She kept her voice light.
Domenico grunted. ‘Signora Togliatti been talking to you? Her grandson’s a good lad. He’s not the brightest but he’ll work hard and he’s tall too. Giacomo can reach those high shelves, all right. Save me going up any ladders.’ He chortled.
‘I’ll get the bowls out and set the table,’ Stella said. She opened the cutlery drawer, retrieving forks and a couple of knives in case they finished with fruit.
Domenico drained the pasta pot, a great cloud of steam obliterating his features. ‘What’s bothering you? Something to do with Gino, yourfidanzato?’ It was the first time he’d used the word for a serious boyfriend or fiancé.
‘He’s not…’ Stella began. Despite her conversation with Carol, she wasn’t going to tempt fate.
‘Ah, that he is. For better or worse.’ Domenico tossed the pasta in the sauce, his face turned to the wall. Painstakingly he divided the mixture into the two bowls and set them on the table.
Stella wound a tangle of spaghetti strands around her fork. ‘Mmm… this smells good. But what did you mean by “for better or worse”? I thought you’d decided you liked Gino. You seemed to get on so well when he came over for dinner last night.’
‘Eat. We can talk afterwards.’
Reluctantly she obeyed. Every mouthful was as delicious as the first but her stomach churned as though she were back sitting outside the headmaster’s study, not knowing what was to come but knowing it wouldn’t be good.
She laid down her fork. Domenico carried the plates to the sink, waving away her offer to help. He unscrewed the top of his ancient Bialetti, scooped some coffee grounds from a red tin into the metal basket and tapped them down. He set the pot on the hob. Still with his back to her, he said: ‘Your papà didn’t want you dating Fernanda’s son.’
‘Because of something that happened before I was born?’ She couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice. ‘I’m not trying to belittle the horror of it, honestly, I’m not. It was a dreadful, inexcusable atrocity and if Fernanda’s sister was somehow responsible, that’s shocking. But you and Papà and Fernanda were all children. For you it should be history, but Papà made it so personal.’
Domenico thumped the coffee pot down on the table. The unused knives jumped. Her gentle uncle’s eyes blazed.
‘It was personal!’
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice faltered.
Silently he poured the coffee into his tiny maroon and white cups, the liquid sloshing into the saucers. He handed her one; the cup sat in a brown puddle.
‘Stella, there’s something your mamma and papà never told you. Something you should know.’
36
Amy added a last dab of green paint. She still wasn’t completely happy with the floral design she’d created but that didn’t matter too much when she had a teetering pile of unglazed wall tiles at her disposal. Being given free rein to mess around with the tiles Leo had no use for, she could afford to make mistakes. And she knew from her pot-making escapades with Grandpa that flaws, botched experiments and frustration were an inevitable part of the creative process.
Leo, on the other hand, was working on the final, crucial details of the memorial plaque. He’d even stopped playing the radio these last couple of days, fearful that a catchy tune might break his focus. At first, she’d been reluctant to join him in his workshop for fear of distracting him but he’d assured her that if she worked in silence, the way she’d done back home, he would be able to lose himself in his work.
