Francesca’s tongue turned to sandpaper. She could only manage stuttered shards of a retort. ‘Mamma . . . You . . . But . . .’
‘I gave you specific instructions to leave this year’s festa alone.’
‘Mamma. The festa . . . It’s not . . .’
‘What’s not?’ Not fair? Not right?’ Elena’s hands came to rest on her curvaceous hips, where her knuckles whitened, betraying her frustration. ‘This entire year has been—’
But Francesca found something resembling courage in her chest and pushed it from her mouth. ‘Mamma, enough!’ Her hands clutched her temples. ‘Papà is gone. He’s not coming back. We all need to move on and . . . and honour his memory in a meaningful way.’
Francesca noted how Elena’s cheeks flushed from olive to garnet. ‘As if we haven’t been doing that every day since he was ripped so cruelly from us! We must protect his legacy at all costs! Everything must remain the same. As it always was. That goes for our reputation, too!’
Maria had taken a supportive step closer to Francesca and attempted to place a reassuring hand on her forearm, but the gesture only startled Francesca from her focus.
‘Tell her, Mamma! Remind her of all we have worked so hard for!’ Elena snipped at Maria, throwing her hands in the air. Her use of ‘Mamma’ reflected the continued respect she showed her mother-in-law, even after her husband’s passing.
‘Let the girl speak!’ Maria pinged back. ‘You . . .’ She waggled a finger at her widowed daughter-in-law. ‘You always jump to conclusions—’
‘Her past actions have taught me to be distrustful. The sneaky menu changes. The secret ingredients. Thirty-three and she still hasn’t learned to follow instructions. Constantly giving me heart attacks for fear of—’
Francesca lunged forward, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Of what? What are you so worried about?’ She gestured to their humble little kitchen. ‘That what happens in here might reflect poorly on Papà’s legacy? Or that it might cast a shadow on you, now that you’re in charge?’
Francesca watched as her mother’s jaw tensed. Was she also holding back welling emotions? She rarely saw her mother cry. The day they lost Nonno, of course. The day they found Giacomo, her father, face down in the wild fennel patch with his trowel in hand, definitely. But Elena commanded their business – their life, for that matter – with a permanent curt smile and very little sentiment.
It had been like this for many years. The tit for tat. It got them nowhere other than tense exchanges and digestive issues. Seeing her mother standing there now, still wearing the black of mourning after twelve months, Francesca realised Elena would never change. It would always be like this. Some of their regulars saw similarities between them – ‘Cut from the same cloth, those two,’ Francesca often heard. She despised these comments. On good days she could overlook them, but on tougher days she felt the ache of a genuine insult.
Of course she loved her mother. But what Francesca craved from Elena was unconditional trust and creative freedom. Sadly, while they shared the kitchen, the best they managed was their own brand of mutual respect, tolerance and space granting. But these moments seemed fewer and further between as time passed.
Francesca looked at her mother’s pinched and drawn face, so clearly ageing despite her continued efforts to keep herself well maintained, and part of her wanted to give up. What was the point?
Sensing her daughter’s hesitation, Elena repeated, ‘What. Did you. Lie about?’ She gave each word an extra beat.
Francesca pinned her shoulders back and cleared her throat. She gave Maria a sideways glance before saying, ‘I’ve entered us in the festa.’ The rise of Elena’s chest didn’t perturb her. ‘Yes, against your wishes, Mamma. But I just had to.’
Elena erupted in laughter. ‘How is that even possible?! And who, might I ask, will cook for us?’ She took one manicured hand from her hip and gestured to the three of them. ‘Because, Cesca, I see only women here.’
Francesca tapped her foot nervously on the polished brown tiles. ‘Him!’ She pointed to the ceiling.
‘Who?’ Elena’s chestnut eyes squinted in confusion. ‘God? God can’t save us now.’
‘No.’ Francesca stepped forward and Maria’s hold on her arm faltered. ‘Alessio.’
Elena’s immaculately tended dark brows furrowed as she tried to place the name. But it was Maria’s surprise, blooming by way of a knowing smile, that drew Elena’s attention. ‘Who is this “Alessio”, Mamma?’
With feigned indifference, Maria deadpanned, ‘Our new summer guest.’
Francesca watched as Elena inflated, the veins in her neck dilating. ‘A stranger?! Someone we don’t even know?! But our reputat—’
‘Mamma, just listen!’ Francesca stepped forward to catch Elena’s hands in her own, as if that kind of contact might placate her. ‘I have a plan!’
‘You have rocks in your head. That’s all you have! Tell her, Mamma!’ Elena wrenched her hands free, and the rejection drew the breath from Francesca’s lungs.
‘Shh! I want to hear the plan.’ Maria smoothed down her apron, readjusted the wooden spoon in her pocket, and eased herself back down into the chair that had always sat at the end of the kitchen bench. The joints creaked under Maria’s generous weight.
‘Mamma. Please, just listen.’
Elena closed her eyes and shook her head. Was this a refusal? Or was she giving in? There was nothing for it but to press on.
You can do this. Slow. Steady. Just explain yourself.
