Chapter 29
ventinove
Wednesday night’s sex on the terrazzo turned into much more over the following week.
Stolen kisses on the stairs. An interrupted moment in the vegetable garden. Fumbling under tops, over dresses. A passionate encounter in Sophia’s back seat after dark.
And while Francesca and Alessio were able to cover their tracks, there was something Francesca couldn’t hide – the way she glowed. And she didn’t have Alessio’s excuse – that it was because of the Mediterranean sun.
That Sunday, as the women prepared for dinner service, Elena looked hard at her daughter and asked, ‘Have you been sleeping particularly well this week?’
‘Just normal, I guess,’ Francesca said.
‘Hmm.’ Elena flicked some extra flour on her board and continued kneading her dough. ‘Because there’s something different about you. Isn’t there, Mamma?’
Maria, sitting in her wooden chair by the end of the bench, sighed. ‘It’s all the sex.’
‘Nonna!’ Francesca erupted.
‘Sex? What do you mean, sex?’ Elena dusted her hands free of the dough and began furiously washing them in the trough.
‘Mamma, please! It’s nothing. Nothing’s going on.’ Francesca shot Maria a wide-eyed look.
Maria exhaled loudly. ‘Pffft!’
Drying her hands on her apron, Elena stepped forward, her face now flushed. ‘Francesca, I swear on San Francesco, if you and Alessio are—’
‘Of course they are!’ Maria piped up. ‘It’s good for the girl. Look at her. It’s been years since she’s looked like this.’
Elena threw her hands in the air. ‘No! No! I warned you against this. You promised me you would control yourself.’
‘MAMMA, ENOUGH!’ Francesca threw the dough against the splashback and it hit the steel bench with a thud, causing all the implements along its length to rattle. ‘Shut up!’
‘Don’t speak to me like that!’
‘I am thirty-three, Mamma! Stop treating me like a child! God!’ She began pacing the kitchen, her skin prickling with heat and sweat.
‘Just when I think we can begin things fresh and on a positive note, Cesca, you go and—I simply can’t trust you!’
‘Trust? TRUST?’ Even Francesca could hear the tremor in her voice.
‘You want to talk about trust?!’ This was it, the moment she had avoided for so long.
The truth that had burned a hole through their already strained relationship.
The biggest secret, held by all but Elena.
Because Elena would never have accepted this for Francesca, let alone celebrated it.
Now it was dangerously close to the surface, and the words just burst from Francesca’s mouth.
‘You, Mamma, are the one we can’t trust! ’
Elena guffawed patronisingly. It rattled and bounced off the walls. ‘ME? I can’t be trusted?’
‘Yes! We all keep secrets from you, because we can’t trust you with OUR TRUTHS!’
Elena turned to catch Maria’s gaze. ‘She’s lost her mind!’
‘No.’ Maria rose to standing. ‘You have, Elena. Ever since we lost Giacomo, you have come undone. Before then you were stubborn, but now . . . now you are a nightmare!’
It was on. The three generations of women let loose, Elena berating them both, and Francesca and Maria uniting in their defence. Hands, arms, voices. In a single moment the argument had degenerated into a chaotic and toxic scene of dysfunctionality.
The first to rein in the mayhem was Francesca. ‘Ok, enough! ENOUGH!’ She leaned against the kitchen bench, her breathing laboured. ‘What have we become? This would kill Papà if he knew.’
‘Your papà knew better than to keep secrets, Cesca.’
‘Papà had his secrets too!’ Francesca retorted, and Maria nodded her agreement.
‘He did not. He told me everything. Everything!’
Francesca simply couldn’t help it. She knew something had to change. She said quietly, ‘Then how come you don’t know the real truth about London?’
‘London?’ Elena’s brow furrowed. ‘What about Lond—?’
‘The reason I went to London for the year. The truth. Hmm?’ Without intending to, Francesca had mirrored Elena’s defensive hands-on-hips stance.
Elena’s jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What. Happened. In London?’
‘I didn’t go to study hospitality English, Mamma. I went to study with Gattuso Giostro at his pasta academy. Nonna knew. Papà knew. In fact, it was his idea.’
Elena’s shoulders sagged and she blinked in disbelief. ‘Is this true, Mamma?’ she asked Maria.
‘It is,’ Maria confirmed. ‘And Francesca is better for it!’
A heavy silence settled over them. Then Elena finally whispered, ‘You all lied to me. Even him.’ Was she crying? Francesca couldn’t tell, as Elena had dropped her head in defeat. But she wiped something from her cheek. ‘I’ve heard enough. This is simply cruel.’
Elena strode from the kitchen, holding her head stiffly high, and made her way through the dining hall to the rear stairs.
‘Mamma! Come back. We need to talk about this.’
‘What more is there to say? You’ve secretly been living your best lives behind my back. And this was before we lost him. There are no more words. This is too much.’
Elena took to the stairs and Francesca hurried after her. ‘No, you don’t get to play the victim here, Mamma. Come back so we can talk about this.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Mamma, please!’
Elena hesitated, but just as she turned on the top stair to face Francesca, she lost her footing. Her ankle rolled and she came tumbling down, arms outstretched to break her fall.
Two distinct cracks echoed through the dining hall, plus another silent one which split Francesca’s heart in two.
‘You didn’t have to come.’ Francesca’s tear-soaked eyes scoured the light blue linoleum tiles underfoot.
‘You were in no state to drive.’ Alessio put a protective arm around her as they stood together by the window in the emergency department waiting room. ‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘No, grazie. Unless you can turn back time?’
The drive from Impastino to the hospital had been tense and silent. The delay in the waiting room was unbearable. But now, all Francesca needed was answers. What damage had been done? How would they move past this? Could they?
A broad-shouldered, balding doctor appeared in turquoise scrubs. ‘You can come and see her now.’
Francesca’s belly churned with nausea. ‘Grazie.’
She and Alessio followed the doctor to a small poky room with dated brown plastic furniture and a cracked window pane.
‘Signora Ladisa, your family is here.’ Elena looked up and sighed, but said nothing.
‘The X-rays show you have two broken bones. Simple cracks in both ulnas. No need for surgery, or pins. But you will be in plaster casts for six to eight weeks. We will confirm that in the coming days once the more detailed imaging comes back from Foggia.’
Elena stared blankly at her feet. ‘So, no work then? We own and operate a trattoria. What are we meant to do?’
Scribbling some notes on his clipboard, the doctor said, ‘Nothing for you for six to eight weeks. Doctor’s orders.
’ Looking up he said, ‘With your pain under control for now, I’d like to set your casts.
Then, you can go home. Do you live alone, Signora Ladisa?
’ Elena nodded. ‘You will need significant support for the next two months, as you will have very limited use of your arms. I can form the casts so that you have use of your fingers to hold things. But I recommend you move in with family or friends for the interim?’
Before Elena could respond, Francesca said quickly, ‘Yes! You can live with Nonna, and I’ll move into your place.’
‘And how will I be able to help Nonna without use of my arms? To shower. The toilet. It won’t work. Let alone climb the ladder to get upstairs.’
‘Is the ladder on an incline?’ the doctor asked.
‘Yes,’ Elena replied on a sigh.
‘Then you can balance your weight per normal, using your hands for light support only. You’re not to suspend yourself from them.’
‘If I have understood you correctly, I have an idea,’ Alessio said in English, stepping forward. ‘Elena, you move in with Nonna. And Francesca, why don’t you share with me? It is your apartment, after all. Then you’ll be right next door to support both of them, and I can help too.’
‘Share? The two of you?’ Elena’s eyes darted between them.
‘With all due respect, Elena, there’s no easier solution.’ Alessio wrapped a supportive arm around Francesca’s shoulder.
Francesca could read that her mother was considering the idea. Eventually, Elena conceded. ‘Fine. But you’ll have to behave yourselves.’
Francesca’s heart gave a little flip resembling joy, despite the awful scenario.
Live with Alessio. Share a bed. Always together.
But before Francesca could delve further into the daydream, the doctor said, ‘Good. That’s settled.’ Then he gestured that Alessio should wait outside, as Elena would need to change out of her hospital gown.
Francesca showed him out. ‘Please don’t go far.’
‘I’ll be just here. Don’t worry.’ He checked the coast was clear before kissing her gently on the lips. ‘We’ll sort it out.’
‘And thank you also for the apartment.’ Francesca gave an appreciative smile and made her way back to Elena’s bedside, where she perched on the edge of the mattress. ‘I’m so sorry, Mamma. I never wanted this to happen to you.’
Their eyes locked. ‘This wasn’t your fault. It was a terrible accident.’ Elena sighed again. ‘This business about London . . .’
‘Mamma, let me explain.’
‘No. I’ll talk first. The fact that all three of you kept this from me for so long is incredibly hurtful and unfair.’
‘I know—’
‘But what hurts most is that this situation shows what you really think of me. Perhaps all three of you.’ Elena, who was stoic at the best of times, suddenly melted into tears.
The doctor, who had been preparing his plaster bandages at a table by the window, cleared his throat and excused himself.
‘Mamma. Things haven’t been good between us for a very long time. We . . . we felt we had no other choice.’
‘And your father?’
Giacomo wasn’t there to speak up on his own behalf.
But in the spirit of their sacred relationship, Francesca spoke only the truth.
‘It was Papà who suggested we use the cover of the English lessons to get me across the line. So I could study a more refined, complex . . . well, study what I couldn’t learn from Papà and Impastino. ’
Elena’s eyes closed and she shook her head. ‘What’s happened to us? This isn’t what I want.’
Francesca edged her way closer up the mattress and gently patted Elena’s bruised, scratched hands. ‘Me either.’
And there, in that little room which smelled of lavender-scented disinfectant and musty linen, a truce was called.
‘I do love you, Cesca. You may not believe me.’
‘I know you do.’ Francesca moved to sit beside Elena, sharing her pillow. As her head dropped to rest on Elena’s shoulder, she said, ‘I love you too.’
‘We will have to offer half-days in the trattoria until I’m healed. We can alternate between lunch and dinner services.’
‘No, Mamma. This happened because of me. I’ll just work right through. Nonna can help with the prep and wash-up.’
‘You’re not doing double service on your own! That’s ridiculous. Half-service. And perhaps for the first time ever we don’t open on Sundays.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Alessio’s head poked through the door. ‘May I?’ Francesca nodded. ‘I happened to overhear. Don’t worry about any of this. It’s not necessary.’
‘There’s no other way, Ale,’ said Francesca firmly.
‘Yes there is. I’ll cook with you.’
‘What?’ Francesca scrambled from the bed to his side. ‘Alessio, you’re not ready for the kitchen. You told me yourself.’
‘I know. I remember.’ His hands balled themselves in his pockets. ‘But that was before.’
Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘Before what?’
‘Before you saved me, Francesca.’
‘But I . . .’
‘You did. You made the kitchen a safe and exciting place for me again. And if that means I get to ease back into this world with you by my side, then I’m in.’
To her astonishment, Francesca suddenly thought she might cry. A tidal wave of pride filled her to the point of rupture. ‘Oh, Alessio. Are you truly sure?’
‘I am. That is, of course, if I’m allowed.’ He looked to Elena. ‘What do you say?’
Elena took a deep breath and said, ‘That’s fine, on one condition. Francesca’s Head Chef of the kitchen.’
Chef. Did she actually just call me chef?
‘That was never in question,’ he said wryly. He turned to Francesca and wrapped an arm around her waist. ‘Chef, any requests?’
‘Three. We must always have fun.’
Alessio mimed annotating a list. ‘Check.’
‘The tazza della pasta reigns supreme.’
‘Check.’
‘And you need to get one other person’s permission first.’
‘Whose? Nonna Maria’s? I don’t think she’ll mind.’
‘No. San Francesco Caracciolo’s.’
Alessio threw his head back and laughed, and it shattered whatever remained of the previous frigid tension. He held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t worry. Frankie and I are like this.’