By the time my brothers arrived, I’d pulled the hot bread from the oven, dressed the salad and kept a watchful eye on the frozen lasagna, which was now bubbling in the glass pan. It didn’t look like Rosa’s, of course, but smelled pretty good.
Mama arrived in the kitchen a short while later, dressed and perfectly made up.
“Well?” she whispered.
“About to pull it out of the oven now. . .” I reached for a hot pad and grabbed the glass dish from the oven. “See, Mama?”
She clapped her hands together as she saw the bubbling lasagna emerge.
“Ooh! It almost looks like the real deal.” She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a block of mozzarella, which she shredded and laid on top. “That’s how she does it, right?”
“Hmm. Looks a little bit like Rosa’s.” Of course, this was nothing like hers, but I would never say that. No doubt Pop would cover that topic for all of us. And no doubt we would all find out in just a few short minutes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Against the Wind
“The storm starts, when the drops start dropping,
When the drops stop dropping then the storm starts stopping.”
Dr. Seuss
At six forty-five we gathered around the dining room table, ready for our family feast. I brought the salad and hot bread. Mama followed behind me with the steaming pan of lasagna—an orangy-red mushy mess—which she placed in the center of the large dining table.
“Bon Appetite, Rossi family!” Mama said and then forced a smile.
The whole room grew silent as all of the attendees stared at the lasagna, which started to sink a bit on the edges. Oh boy. This wouldn’t end well.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of D.J., who stared with open mouth. I could almost read the words racing through his mind: What in the world do we have here? To my right, Holly squirmed in her high chair. Ivy responded by letting out a squeal. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before everyone in the place was squealing, and not in a good way.
“Imelda?” My father’s gaze shifted from the pan to my mother, then back to the pan. “What is this you’ve put in front of me?”
“It’s. . .” She used the hot pads to fan her face, which had grown red. “It’s lasagna, of course. Now, let’s pray, folks.”
“Looks like we need to,” Pop grumbled. “Are you sure this is lasagna?” He leaned forward and sniffed the air. “Maybe you made a mistake?”
“I’m quite sure. I believe I explained that it’s a different recipe from Rosa’s, but promises to be just as tasty.” Mama’s jaw flinched. “Now, eat your dinner so that we can watch Brock Benson’s new sitcom.”
“That’s Life airs on Mondays. Don’t you remember?” He continued to stare at the pan of lasagna. So did everyone else at the table, though no one said a word.
“Mama, this salad looks divine.” I forced a smile and reached for the salad tongs. “The olives are beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you.” Her voice quivered as she reached over to cut the lasagna. It didn’t seem to want to cooperate. “I got them at the farmer’s market. And the tomatoes are from Rosa’s greenhouse, of course.”
“Rosa.” Pop sighed and handed his empty plate to Mama, who scooped a healthy portion of the lasagna onto it. In the process, the slippery layers of pasta slid apart, revealing orangish colored layers of sauce. “How many weeks until she gets back?”
“Thirteen days, sixteen hours and six minutes.” Mama dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Not that I’m counting, of course.” She glared at my father. “Eat your lasagna, Cosmo.”
I passed a bowl of salad my father’s way, hoping he would start with that. He took a nibble from his salad and smiled. “Very nice.” Then, with everyone looking on in silence, my father took his first bite of the mushy pasta.
It took less than three seconds for his expression to shift from delirious to disgusted. He pulled the fork away and let out a cry. “What is this?”
“I told you, it’s lasagna.” Mama continued to dish the slippery orange layers onto the plates of our family members. “And you will eat it without saying a word or there will be no dessert.”
She didn’t bother to mention that dessert was a frozen cheesecake she’d only started to thaw a few minutes ago.
Pop took another bite of the pasta and pushed it aside, focusing on his salad. That’s pretty much what everyone else at the table did, too, once they’d been served. Mama took her seat and swallowed down a bite of the lasagna. If she hated it as much as the others did, you couldn’t tell from the expression on her face. The woman could’ve won an Academy Award for her performance at the dinner table.
“Yummy,” she said, and then wiped her lips. “I just knew I’d love this new recipe. I find it so refreshing to try new things, don’t you, Bella?”
“Um, yes.” I took a little nibble and forced it down. “I hate to get stuck in a rut.”
“I like my rut.” Pop’s gaze narrowed. “Nothing wrong with a rut, as long as it’s a good one.”
From the foyer Guido started crooning Amazing Grace. Ironic. Looked like Mama needed a hefty dose of that grace right about now, but Pop wasn’t keen on dishing it out. He was, apparently, keen on dishing up insults, one after another. Mama glared at him, but he wouldn’t seem to let up.
“You know what they say. . .you are what you eat.” His stomach rumbled. “I’m an empty, tasteless man.”
Mama groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. “Cosmo, I cannot disagree about the tasteless part, but don’t be ridiculous about the rest. It’s not that bad. You’re not going to starve. If you don’t like my recipe, then get in the kitchen and make yourself a sandwich.”
“Me. . .in the kitchen? But I’m a. . .” He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “A manly man.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Mama asked. “Laz spends most of his day in the kitchen and you never question his manhood.”
“I spend all day in the kitchen at Parma John’s, Pop,” Nick threw in. “Are you questioning my manhood?”
That shut Pop up, at least for a moment. Unfortunately, my brother’s oldest son, Deany-Boy, picked up where my father left off. The chubby teen took a second helping of the lasagna. “Tastes just like the stuff they give us on Thursdays at school. I’m used to it.”
“See, Cosmo?” Mama pointed to Deany-Boy. “He loves it.”
“I didn’t say I loved it.” Deany-Boy took another bite then spoke with his mouth full. “Just saying it’s familiar.”
“Don’t go by what he says.” Nick rolled his eyes and patted his son on the shoulder. “This boy of mine will eat anything.”
“True, that.” Pop pressed his fork into the dried edge of lasagna and attempted another nibble, his expression souring at once. He spit it into his napkin and looked my way. “You know your way around the kitchen, right, Bella? Perhaps you could help your Mama until Rosa comes back?”
“Bella’s up to her eyeballs in the Collins wedding.” These words came from D.J., who finished off the rest of his lasagna without muttering a complaint, then reached for a second helping.
“The meteorologist thing?” Pop asked. “I saw that groom-to-be on PBS the other day. I know his astronomy show is for kids, but the whole thing was nuttier than a fruitcake, if you ask me.” He paused and sighed, a dreamy expression on his face. “Fruitcake. You know I was never a fan of the nasty stuff until I tasted Rosa’s. Now I’m addicted. Do you think she’ll be back in time to make it this year?”
“I don’t know, Cosmo.” Mama pushed her lasagna around her plate with her fork.
“And what about her cookies?” Deany-Boy asked.
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without Rosa’s anise cookies and biscotti.” For a moment it looked as if my father might cry.
Armando looked up from his salad, eyes wide. “No way. Are you saying there won’t be any Christmas cookies this year? What about Cannoli cake? And honey balls???
?
“And Neapolitans?” Sophia asked. “And Tiramisu cheesecake?”
“And Panna Cotta.” Pop threw in. “It just won’t be the same without Rosa’s Panna Cotta.”
“Hello, people.” Scarlet folded her arms at her chest and leaned back in her chair. “Have you all forgotten that Rosa’s not the only baker in the family? What am I. . .chopped liver?”
“Well, Rosa specializes in Italian baked goods, honey.” Armando gave Scarlet a knowing look. “That’s different.”
Scarlet rolled her eyes and took a bite of the garlic bread.
Deany-Boy rubbed his belly, then shoveled in another mouthful of the orange lasagna. “We’re all going to starve if she doesn’t get back in time.”
Marcella gave him a warning look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, boy.”
“Promise me you won’t buy any of those fake Christmas cookies from Wal-Mart.” Pop turned to face Mama. “You know the ones, loaded with artificial ingredients and preservatives. They’ll find our stiff bodies, years from now, loaded with things we should never have eaten.”
“For Pete’s sake, Cosmo. So much drama.” Mama took another nibble of her lasagna. She chased down the tiny bite with a large swing from her water glass. “Let it go.”
“I can’t.” He dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin. “The idea of eating a boxed cookie has caused me to lose my appetite.” He put down his fork and leaned back against his chair, growing silent.
You would’ve thought someone in the family had just died, based on the somber expressions on every face. There were worse things than boxed cookies, for Pete’s sake, but at the moment I couldn’t think of a thing. So, I said the only thing that made sense: “Is everyone forgetting that Rosa and Laz will be back in time for Christmas?”
A visible sigh of relief went up from the crowd.
“Well, yes, but she’s usually baking the whole month of December,” Pop countered.
“And making her homemade candy,” Armando threw in. “What will we do without her candy?”
Nick gave Armando a sympathetic look. “If I wasn’t so worn out from my hours cooking at Parma Johns I’d take up the slack.”
“Oh no you won’t.” Marcella, Nick’s wife, placed her hand on his arm. “You’re overworked enough already. I’d rather eat at pizza every meal from now till Christmas than see you take on more work. Promise you won’t.”
“I promise.” He gave her a little smile.
I couldn’t help but notice D.J. looking my way. No doubt he wanted to give me the same speech about not over-working. Still, what could I do?
My father pushed his chair back. “I need to excuse myself. Bella put something strange in the fireplace. The smell is affecting my appetite.”
Mama glared at Pop. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Cosmo.”
He looked around, as if perplexed. “There’s someone feeding me?” His gaze shot down to the lasagna and he groaned. “I’d like to bite the hand of the person who fed me this.” He stood and mumbled under his breath as he stood.
One by one, the others rose and pushed back their chairs.
“We can have our cheesecake in the living room,” Mama said. “And watch a show on TV. That will be fun.”
I doubted it, but didn’t say so. Instead, I tagged along on her heels into the kitchen and watched as she dissolved into a haze of tears. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her this storm would pass. It would, of course. . .just as soon as Rosa and Laz returned home, where they belonged.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Candle in the Wind
If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm.
Frank Lane
The following morning the Rossis met on the veranda to begin the process of putting up Christmas decorations at Club Wed. Pop had already hung lights on the front of the wedding facility weeks ago, but the time had come to decorate the gazebo area with white lights, as well. The fine folks at Stages Set Design would handle the stars and snowflakes as we got closer to Justine and Harold’s wedding, but lighting up the place with twinkling white lights would get the ball rolling.
When the Rossis decorated, it was a family affair. Pop, Armando and D.J. worked on the lights while Mama, Marcella and I hung Christmas decor inside of the chapel and reception area. Sophia played with the children next door at my parents’ house, though Tres insisted he help the menfolk out with the lights.
About an hour into our work, one of the neighbor boys, Dakota, showed up, looking for Deany-Boy. He entered the reception area just as my father came in through the back door. The kid arrived carrying a large bowl of stew, which he ate, one large spoonful after another.
“What have you got there, kid?” My father’s eyes bugged as he took in the bowl.
Dakota glanced up, a dreamy expression on his face. “Oh, it’s beef stew. Our cook made it. She’s almost as good as Rosa.” He took another bite, then added, “Almost.”
“Do you happen to have her number handy?” Pop’s gaze narrowed.
Mama slapped Pop with the rag in her hand. “Get to work, Cosmo,” she said. “If we don’t whip this place into shape before the paparazzi descend on us, we’ll have egg on our face.”
“Egg?” My father groaned. “Did you have to say egg? I really miss Rosa’s omelets, loaded with peppers straight from the garden. Spinach. Prosciutto. Oh, I’m never going to last until she gets back home.”
“Wait, Paparazzi?” Dakota’s eyes widened. “The media’s coming? What kind of wedding is this?”
“The kind with a nutty groom,” my father said. His eyes took on a dreamy look. “Ah, nuts. I miss Rosa’s pecan pie.”
“Just keep yourself busy at the lodge, Cosmo,” Mama said. “The time will pass more quickly that way.”
“They’ve got me heading up so many events up at the lodge, I don’t know that I can handle any more. It’s almost more than I can chew.” He paused a moment and a dreamy look came over him. “More than I can chew. Interesting choice of words, since I haven’t had a decent meal in nearly a week.”
Pop left the room, muttering something about how he was going to starve to death. Dakota followed behind him, which left us ladies in the reception hall alone.
Mama stood in silence for a moment.
“You okay over there?” I asked as I wrangled a fistful of lights.
“Oh, I’m perfect.” The edges of her lips curled up in a smile. “Ladies, I just had the best idea in the world. I’m going to hire the Burton’s cook to make our meals until Rosa and Laz return.”
“But she’s already busy making meals for their family.” Marcella climbed the step stool to fasten a wreath to the wall.
“I’ll just ask her to double whatever she’s making,” Mama said, a gleam in her eye. “Whatever they’re eating at the Burton’s, we’ll eat at the Rossi’s. And I will pay her well—very well—for her time and trouble. But ladies, promise me this. . .” Her words intensified. “Don’t. Tell. Cosmo.”
“Don’t tell him where the food is coming from?” Marcella looked down from her perch, clearly confused.
“Really, Mama?” I asked. “Why not just let him know? Won’t it be easier that way?”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Bella.” Mama’s eyes flooded with tears and she set her rag on the table. “It’s my pride at stake. Your father cannot know. This is my storm to weather, and I must do so in my own way.”
She didn’t think he would figure it out when he saw that the kitchen was clean?
Then again, my father rarely ventured into the kitchen. He’d said so, himself. Manly men—fellas in their undershirts—rarely spent time in the kitchen, except, perhaps, to refill their coffee cups in the morning.
Yes, Mama was perfectly safe. Still, I couldn’t help but think this latest plan of hers wouldn’t end well.
It took several hours to finish our work, but by noon—with most in agreement that we should head to Parma Johns for lunch—we had the place looking re
ally good. D.J. offered to put the ladders away and I headed next door to fetch the kids. As I walked across the front lawn of the wedding facility I paused to gaze up at the skies, which were cloudy and ominous looking. Hmm. A little shiver wriggled its way down my spine as the cold breeze blew by. I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking. Sophia met me on the veranda, and I could tell from the troubled look on her face that something had gone wrong.
“Are the kids okay?” I asked. “Rosie’s not crying about the thunder, is she?”
“They’re fine. And no, Rosie’s not crying. I’m worried about Guido, actually.”
“G-guido?” Mama joined me on the steps of the veranda. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s not singing, for one thing,” Sophia said. “And he hasn’t called me any names today at all. He’s just sitting very, very still on his perch. Hasn’t moved one inch all day.”
“Very odd.” We walked inside and found Guido on his perch in the front hallway, just as Sophia had described: Still. Quiet. Odd.
Mama turned to face the little guy, her brow wrinkling. I couldn’t help but wonder why the bird—such a creature of habit—didn’t seem himself today.
“He’s always been such a little nuisance, and so noisy,” Sophia said. “But today he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I reached out to pet him and he pulled away. He just wants to be left alone.”
“Maybe he’s tired of all of the chaos?” I suggested. “He’s finally snapped?”
“Or maybe, just maybe, he’s missing Rosa and Laz,” Mama said. “They baby him so much. Maybe he’s just missing the interaction.”
“I guess.” Sophia’s voice was laced with concern. “I sure hope it’s something like that and not an illness.” She headed into the living room to round up the children.
Mama sighed and stared at the bird. After a moment, she looked my way. “Bella, I have a confession to make.”
“What is it?”
“I, well. . .” She lowered her voice. “It’s about Guido.”
“Oh, Mama. . .don’t tell me. You forgot to feed him?”