Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Bianca
I unlock the door and step into the dark and quiet. The house smells like lemon oil and basil from the pot on the sill. I drop my bag on the chair and stand a second with my hand on the doorknob, head against the wood. The click of the deadbolt is louder than it should be.
I toe off my shoes in the dark like a thief in my own place and pad to the kitchen. The light over the sink buzzes when I flip it. The counter is the same as this morning. The mug I didn’t wash. The bananas going slowly black.
I fill a glass. The water runs cold and tastes like the pipe under the street that’s been there since before I was born.
I’m halfway through the first swallow when there’s a knock. Three quick raps I know by heart.
I don’t bother asking who it is. I open the door.
Mama is on the step with her coat open and her hair falling out of whatever pins she jammed it in with. She steps past me on habit and shucks her heels like a woman coming home to a place that used to be hers.
She points at me like I’m a smoke alarm that won’t shut up. “Are you crazy?”
“I heard you,” I say, moving past her to the counter. The basil on the sill needs water. I give it some. “No, I’m not.”
“You agreed to be his private chef.” She says it like I agreed to rob a bank. “In his house.”
“For a few months.”
“For a few months,” she repeats, disgusted. “Do you have any idea who you are dealing with?”
“Yes,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You think you’re going to walk into a Conti home and just… cook,” she says, chopping the air with her hand. “You think there aren’t strings in those walls? You think there won’t be people watching you and reporting back and testing you for sport?”
“I think there’s a ledger with a number,” I shoot back. “And cooking in his house knocks that number down faster than we can with envelopes and double shifts and praying the fryer doesn’t die on a Saturday.”
She laughs once, ugly. “So it’s math to you.”
“It’s also sanity,” I say. “You’re drowning. I can throw you a rope.”
“By tying yourself to a Conti,” she says. “Great plan.”
“Better than tying ourselves to him for years,” I say. “We do this, we’re done in months.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “You don’t know his house.”
“Then I’ll learn it.”
“You don’t know his people.”
“I’ll keep my head down.”
“You don’t know him,” she says, and then bites the inside of her cheek like she said too much.
I lean on the counter. “What do you want me to say, Ma? That I know he’s dangerous? I know he can afford to be polite because he doesn’t have to raise his voice? I know his name opens doors and closes others? I live here. I’m not new.”
“You’ve been gone,” she says, and it’s not an insult. Just a fact. “You’ve been living where the worst thing that happens is a critic writes a clever sentence about too much salt.”
“Don’t do that,” I say, low. “Don’t belittle me. I’m not some foolish girl.”
She blows out a breath, hands on hips. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.” The hurt sits hot in my chest. “I bled for that kitchen in Florence. I was the first one in and the last one out. I learned to lead without screaming. I learned to fix things with nothing. I learned to take a hit and keep going. That’s real.”
Her shoulders drop a little. “I know you work hard.”
“You don’t talk to me like you do,” I say, softer, but it still cuts. “You talk like I’ve been on vacation. Like I’m playing restaurant while you carry the real weight. That’s not fair.”
She looks at the floor, then at me. “I’m scared,” she says, plain. “You want honesty? I’m scared. Of them. Of him. Of you getting pulled into something you can’t walk out of.”
“I’m scared too,” I say. “But I don’t want you indebted to him for years. This finishes it faster.”
“You’ll be in his house,” she says again, as if she keeps saying it, it changes. “I don’t want you in his house.”
“I don’t want me in his house either,” I say. “I’ll be cooking. Not laundering money. Not running packages. Eggs, soup, pasta. Food. You raised me to be good at that.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think he picked you because you’re good? He picked you because he can. Because that’s what people like him do.”
“Maybe both,” I say. “Either way, I’ll use it.”
Her mouth tightens. “And what about Italy?”
“It waits,” I say. “Three months. Maybe four. I’m not throwing my life away. I’m postponing.”
“You think they’ll keep a spot for you forever?”
“No,” I say. “But he’ll understand a funeral and a family. And if he doesn’t, then that’s my answer about that life.”
She looks at me for a long time. “You’re so sure.”
“I’m not,” I say, honestly. “But I’m sure of you. I’m sure I can cook.”
We stare at each other across the little kitchen like we’re on opposite sides of a field.
Her shoulders drop. “What if he asks for something you can’t give?”
“Like what?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Time you don’t have. A party for a hundred with two hours’ notice. To stay late. To come early. To—”
“I’ll say yes if I can,” I say. “I’ll say no if I can’t.”
“You won’t say no,” she says. “Not to him.”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it. “You raised me to.”
She snorts. “I raised you to think you could fix everything if you worked harder.”
“That too,” I say. “It’s come in handy.”
She rubs her forehead the way she does when a headache’s coming on. “You tell no one.”
“I wasn’t planning to send a newsletter.”
“I mean no one,” she says, sharper. “Not your cousins. Not Zia. Not Carmen. Not a soul.” She jabs the counter. “If someone asks, you’re consulting. I don’t care. You’re doing paperwork. You’re at the fish market. You’re anywhere except where you are.”
“Agreed.”
She nods, once. “And you send me your schedule. Every day. I want to know when you leave and when you’re back.”
“I’ll text,” I say.
“And if he ever—if anything feels wrong—”
“I’ll walk,” I say. “You don’t have to finish the sentence.”
Her eyes shine, but she blinks back the tears that threaten. “I mean it, Bibi. I don’t care if it adds years. You walk. You call me, and I’ll… We’ll figure it out.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She presses her knuckles to her mouth, thinking, then drops her hand. “You’re too much like her,” she says. “You get that set in your jaw, and I know I’ve lost.”
“You haven’t lost,” I say. “We’re not competing against each other. We’re on the same team, Mama.”
Silence falls between us again. Mama sighs. “I hate this.”
“Me too.”
“You come to the restaurant early tomorrow,” she says. “We plan this dinner together.”
“I’ll be there.”
We stand there, the two of us with a thousand unsaid things crowding the room. Finally, she picks up my abandoned mug and rinses it like the motion holds her together. She sets it on the rack with more care than a mug needs.
She dries her hands on her skirt and looks around my kitchen like it might answer for me. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move yet.
I nod. “Big day tomorrow.”
She comes close and cups my face for half a second, the way she did when I was ten and feverish. Her palms are cool. “Don’t be brave for me,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m being practical.”
She huffs. “Same thing with you.” She reaches for her shoes, slips them on.
At the door, she pauses. “Lock behind me.”
“I always do.”
She opens it, the night pushing a little chill in around her. Then she turns back, eyes softer. “Eat,” she says. “Please.”
“I will.”
She nods once, like that’s the only promise she needs, and steps out. I watch her go down the walk to her car. The night air is cool enough to make my arms prickle. She waves once without looking back and drives off. Tail lights disappear at the corner.
I close the door and turn the deadbolt. Getting ready for bed is automatic—checking all the doors, the windows, the stove. After washing the day off me, I get into bed and lie on my back and remember what I told myself when I got here. I’m here for Nonna’s funeral, then back to Italy.
I guess that’s officially off the table.