7. Once Upon a Family Recipe #2
“Meatballs it is then.” As soon as the sentence had left Chiara’s mouth, Binoche was up and running towards them from her perch on the window.
Chiara straightened again, knocking the door shut with her knee, since her hands were now full of various containers.
She was carefully balancing her load while also trying to avoid stepping on the cat who was doing her damnedest to get in her way.
Placing everything in haphazard order on the counter, Chiara stepped to the sink and smirked at Binoche, who was now sitting on her haunches by her feet, tail tucked neatly around her paws.
Vi watched, mesmerized by the little dance between woman and cat that seemed to have been performed many a time, despite the two of them only having been acquainted for a few weeks.
Had it really been this short of a time? Vi felt like she had known both Chiara and the little cat for years.
Under Vi’s gaze, the woman in question thoroughly washed her hands, like a doctor gearing up for surgery. Then she turned and, for a moment, seemed to be lost in thought, eyebrows raised, as if surprised at what she was doing. Vi’s heart stuttered, and she was unsure why.
The post-its, the uncertainty at times like these when the tasks were a set of complex steps…
Chiara caught her staring and scrunched her nose, looking ten years younger and so carefree that all of Vi’s thoughts scattered.
Then she absentmindedly reached for the first thing on the counter, and it was like the earlier confusion didn’t exist. She was full of purpose now, emptying what looked like two different kinds of minced meat into a bowl, but not before she gave a tiny morsel to the daintily meowing Binoche.
Chiara suddenly turned her eyes towards Vi, pinning her with a speculative gaze.
“Now that we have established your dubious understanding of cuisine, Ms. Courtenay, feel free to tell me what brings you to my door at whatever ungodly hour it is. And also, tell me why Aoife was crowing that you beat somebody over at Rue de Bretagne into submission. Oh and, I think I have figured out that Queen Anne issue I had with the cream lace.”
As Vi still sat silently, blinking in surprise at the stream of topics thrown her way, Chiara waved her free hand at her and reached for a couple of eggs, which she promptly broke into the bowl.
Then, as Vi looked on, she took out a baguette and proceeded to tear it into strips, which she carefully added to the egg and mince mix.
When Chiara coughed gently, Vi knew her staring time was up.
As Chiara set the bowl aside, she looked down at her white apron and stared at an egg yolk stain. Under Vi’s dumbfounded stare, she smiled a bit sheepishly and took off the apron, pulling another one from the cupboard.
“I can’t stand yellow stains.”
When she started washing the tomatoes and basil leaves, Vi found her voice. It was easier to let her words fly when she was directing them at Chiara’s back.
“I’m twenty-five years old, and although I know it’s ludicrous. I still think one day my father will suddenly love me.”
Chiara didn’t turn around, but the hands that were slicing the tomatoes stopped for a few seconds before her shoulders dropped slightly, and she went back to her task. Vi exhaled, feeling freer than she had in years, simply from speaking the words out loud.
“In his eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right. And yet I keep trying. I know that it won’t make any difference to him, no matter what I do. But I can’t seem to stop, you know?” She wanted to drop her head on the counter. Why would Chiara know? How would Chiara know?
“I do, actually.” And now Chiara turned, fingers covered in tomato juice, looking a bit like blood in the bright, strangely distorted light of the kitchen. “Sometimes we go our entire lives trying to persuade the people we love that we are worthy of them.”
Was Chiara talking about Vi’s father? Or was she talking about Frankie? Vi didn’t have the courage to ask. It seemed like such an intimate conversation.
“I don’t feel I’m worthy, though—”
“You are!” Chiara’s voice rang loud, and the knife sliced through the parsley with enough force to impale itself on the wooden cutting board.
Binoche meowed, but it sounded more like a sign of support, especially since she was suddenly circling Vi’s feet, rubbing herself against her, a rarity in and of itself.
She must seem really pitiful to elicit sympathy from a cat.
Chiara resumed her work, periodically giving Vi sidelong glances as if making sure she’d heard her words. A tiny drop of tomato juice splattered on the front of the apron and Vi lifted her eyebrows, but Chiara simply waved her on.
“It’s different. Red stains are fine, it’s the yellow ones that are a problem. Sue me. It’s my apron.”
Chiara took a deep breath, ignored Vi’s look of amusement, and went back to the stove with single-minded focus. Silence reigned once again, before Chiara turned back to face Vi, her eyes tumultuous.
“You should never beg for love. And you should never be made to work for it, Vi. It’s that simple.
There is no earning it, there is no deserving it.
You are a joy. And you are precious. Your family, those who vowed to love and cherish you, should not make you prove your worth over and over again.
” Chiara looked at her with a particular fervor then, and Vi felt pinned by that gaze, imprisoned by its intensity.
When the amber eyes dropped back to the chopping board, Vi thought that it was a very strange choice of words Chiara had made.
‘Those who vowed’ didn’t necessarily describe family.
But she refused to allow herself to drift down that pathway.
That way lay madness and a glimmering hope that Vi surely was better off extinguishing. Too bad she wasn’t strong enough.
If Chiara was unhappy in her marriage, it was none of Vi’s business. If Chiara was unhappy, period, it wasn’t Vi’s business either.
She has a wife… She has a wife…
Meanwhile, the reason for said flickering hope moved to the stove where the iron skillet now sizzled and the sauce simmered.
“I normally bake the meatballs before I fry them. That was my mother’s secret.
Never fry them to readiness, bake them, then put them in the sauce for a few minutes in the skillet.
But sadly I’m too hungry, and our conversation is turning really sad, darling.
Still, it’s nothing that good meatballs with tomato sauce and freshly-baked bread can’t cure. ”
Chiara smiled as she stirred the sauce, and Vi found herself smiling back, basking in the glory of that joy that looked honest and true and so right amidst the storm outside and the turmoil in her own heart. Something to hold on to. Something to cherish. As Chiara should be, held and cherished.
* * *
They ate in companionable silence, dipping torn pieces of their baguette into the skillet that Chiara had placed between them on the island, Binoche in a food coma at their feet.
The sauce burned Vi’s mouth, hot, flavor exploding, and she tried to pretend that her eyes were watering from the spices.
Chiara reached over with her hand, and Vi felt her wipe away a tear, and it only made her want to cry all the harder. She willed herself to swallow both the mouthful of delicious food and her melancholy.
“I’m sorry. Here I am, single-handedly disproving your theory of how meatballs make everything better…” Vi deliberately took a big bite from her plate and dunked another piece of bread into the rich sauce.
“Oh, don’t worry, they are still the only balls that make anything better.
The fact that you’ve eaten five by now just proves my point.
” Vi startled and then laughed, guffawing, trying not to choke.
“If you think I didn’t count, you are deluding yourself.
I know I’m a good cook. And it’s obvious you love my food. ”
God, that confidence. So sexy. So damn attractive.
“I’m not denying anything. I mean, after five meatballs, I have no defense left, ma’am.
You’re fantastic at this. At a great many other things, I reckon…
” Vi trailed off, uncertain how her words would be received.
She desperately hoped Chiara wouldn’t think she was out of line.
Because she really wasn’t flirting, she wasn’t, she meant—
“Fashion?” Chiara gestured towards the studio’s lights with her fork, and to the numerous workstations where her designs lay in various states of readiness.
The ivory gown that Vi had modeled for alterations was separated from the rest, now on a mannequin, like a beacon, drawing Vi’s gaze.
It was just so different from everything else, and she couldn’t help but find it the most beautiful thing in the room.
Its creator aside.
“Vision.” Vi hadn’t known what she was going to say until it was out of her mouth, and she wondered about this affliction she was developing—especially around Chiara—and whether it was her nascent feelings or the calm and kindness of her interlocutor that compelled her to speak her mind.
“That’s very kind, Ms. Courtenay.” Chiara averted her eyes as she spoke, and before Vi could say anything else, rose and took her plate to the sink.
“I am sorry if I upset you. Again, I must say. I didn’t mean to now, and I certainly did not mean to last time.”
When Chiara turned to her, hands under the running faucet, her smile was wistful.
“You didn’t. I think I might have overreacted then, and it’s in the past now, anyway.
And no, you did nothing wrong just now, either.
You know how, when you hear something for the first time in a long time, it usually catches you unawares? ”
Vi furrowed her brow. “ Something ?”
Chiara turned back to the sink, her shoulders tense and any trace of humor disappeared from her voice when she spoke.
“Apologies.”