She took a moment to lean out onto the ledge. The trill of the cicadas’ night-time serenade distracted her for a moment. A few curls flicked across her cheek, pulled by the wind. Shaking her head, she looked to the sky.
Papà, I’m trying. I really am. But I feel stuck again. Please, just find a way to help me keep moving.
She pulled the gathered bundle of gold charms dangling from her necklace out from under her t-shirt. Finding the most precious of them all – the little fusillo pasta spiral – she pressed her lips to the warm metal for a few moments.
I’m at breaking point here, Papà. Please.
* * *
Francesca padded into the kitchen the following morning, her head heavy with the previous evening’s insecurities, which she had been unable to shake. Maria sat comfortably in the wooden chair at the end of the kitchen bench, a bowl at her side, shelling peas. Elena was sorting through supplies, noting quantities and items on a pad, tapping the pen to her lips between jots and scribbles.
Francesca couldn’t lift herself from this malaise. ‘Morning,’ she mumbled, reaching for her apron.
‘Have you eaten?’ Maria asked, nibbling on a freshly shelled baby pea.
‘Not hungry.’ Francesca washed her hands, then turned to Elena. ‘What are we serving today?’
‘Mamma wants to offer orecchiette with peas and broad beans. She is prepping already, and there are fave in the fridge for you to get started on.’ Francesca didn’t miss the fleeting glance Elena gave the wall-hanging clock, her eyes full of disapproval. ‘And I will prepare our usual eggplant parmigiana with ragù.’ Elena pulled a waxed paper parcel from the fridge and set it down on the bench. She opened it, revealing a two-kilo stack of freshly ground veal mince, six pork sausages still connected by their white butcher’s twine, and two large beef ribs. ‘I’ll start with the ragù.’
‘As you wish.’ Francesca grabbed the large bowl of freshly picked broad bean pods from the fridge and dragged a dining chair from the restaurant, pulling up alongside Maria. She snipped the ends off each pod with a serrated knife, catching then pulling the beans’ strings from them. She pried open the pods with her thumbs, plucking free each pale-skinned broad bean. The empty pods dropped to the floor in a pile, while the beans quickly gathered in the bowl nestled in her lap.
They worked in silence for a few moments, before Maria eventually asked, ‘And Alessio? Have you spoken yet with him about . . .?’
Elena’s gaze shot to Francesca as she poured extra virgin olive oil into the large pot on the stove.
Francesca swallowed. ‘No. Not yet.’
Elena scowled into the pot, just loud enough for Francesca to hear.
‘Mamma, don’t be like that. I am trying to get to know him first. Build rapport and trust. That’s not helpful.’
‘What’s not helpful is a daughter who doesn’t follow instructions and just does what she wants, threatening our stellar reputation in the town, not to mention our period of mourn—’
‘Your period of mourning.’ Francesca’s eyes locked on the ceiling, allowing the frustration to leak from her lips in one loaded sigh. She gestured to her own duck egg–blue cotton dress with capped sleeves, the hem of which just grazed the tops of her knees. ‘You’ve spent your time, Mamma. Please, now you need to be kind to yourself.’
But Elena’s only retort was a forceful push of her knife through a papery-skinned onion. It fell in two with a smack.
‘Black suits her,’ Maria chimed in, tossing another pea into her mouth. Munching, she added, ‘Matches her mood . . .’ She laughed under her breath.
‘Mamma!’ Elena snapped, holding her knife aloft.
But it was at that moment that Alessio’s face appeared over the top of the saloon doors. ‘Buongiorno,’ he announced politely, before stepping inside. ‘May I?’
His unexpected presence pulled all three women from their bickering. Francesca turned to lock eyes with Maria, and she saw the same question reflected on the older woman’s face: How much had he heard?
But there was nothing to fear, as Alessio smiled and his hazel-brown eyes found Francesca’s. ‘Sorry if I’ve interrupted your work, but I was ju—’
‘Alessio, was it?’ Elena stepped forward, her politely curated English slightly halting.
‘Yes. Elena, I presume?’ he asked, offering a courteous hand, which she shook. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Francesca watched her mother’s sickly sweet guest-facing routine kick into gear, and for once she was thankful for it. She needed Elena to play along, for now at least, until she could work out her next move with Alessio.
Francesca cringed internally, watching as Elena’s eyes rolled over the tattoos marking Alessio arms. They were so damn sexy, but there was no way Elena would share that sentiment.
Don’t pull ‘The Face’, Mamma . . . Ugh!
‘Elena Ladisa. Welcome to our home.’ Elena’s arms opened welcomingly, and her smile seemed genuine. But to Francesca’s trained eye it was obvious Elena was sizing him up. Quietly, covertly reading him. Trying to suss what she could from the ‘first impressions last’ moment. Francesca felt the tension build in her shoulders and made an effort to let them drop.
