Chapter 10
Nonna Lucia’s house is much the same as Teresa’s. I knock at the door and she frowns as she opens it a crack. I explain I’ve come with dinner from La Tavola and Giovanni and she ushers me inside.
She asks if I’m from Casa Luna.
I say I am.
The table is laid for two. I can’t eat another meal, I think.
‘Please, sit,’ she says, taking the food and the wine from me and pouring it into a glass. I take a sip, trying to work out how to get out of eating. But it’s too late. I’m already being served.
‘I have made a little antipasti and salata ,’ she says, as I’m faced with a platter of mixed meats, olives, cheese and beautiful ripe tomatoes.
I attempt to eat the salad, hoping it will be light and not too filling, but the fig and goat’s cheese in it make it far too delicious to stop at just a mouthful or two.
The saltiness of the cheese and sweetness of the figs, complete opposites, are a match made in Heaven.
When I sit back, she stands, her apron tied around her ample hips, and begins to serve the pasta dish I’ve just had at Teresa’s. Wonderful home-made pasta, with courgette, a kick of garlic and a spritz of lemon.
‘Just a little, please,’ I say. ‘Er, watching my weight,’ I add.
She turns slowly to me, looks me up and down, ‘Phfff,’ and serves a hefty quantity of the pasta.
I explain I’m here with my children, doing up the house by the end of the summer.
‘And where is your husband?’
‘He’s not with us,’ I manage, without feeling I have to tell a complete stranger I’m widowed and miss him every single moment of every single day.
If I thought I was going to get away with leaving some of the pasta and saying I’m giving up dessert for my diet, I was mistaken.
I’m handed a bowl of more fresh figs with creamy mascarpone.
‘From the garden,’ she tells me.
‘They’re delicious.’
Finally, I stand up, feeling as full as I did when I was nine months pregnant. I hand her the orange lasagne dish. She takes it, then looks at the final dish in my basket, the blue one, and sniffs. ‘I see you had another visitor. My sister, no doubt.’
‘Oh, your sister? Yes, it was delicious …’
She’s waiting for me to say something about her lasagne.
‘I enjoyed them all, but I could tell which one you’d made.’ I try to be diplomatic. ‘It was very distinctive.’
‘So mine was your favourite?’ She smiles triumphantly as if she’s lifting a gold medal at the Olympics. ‘I’m glad, though not surprised. I have worked hard to make the best lasagne in this village.’
‘Of course.’
I’m keen to leave, so after we’ve said goodbye, I open the door. Alessandro is waiting for me. I can hardly walk.
‘How was it?’ he says.
‘Filling!’ I say quietly, with a little burp.
‘Giovanni says one more to go. Nonna Rosa. And don’t be put off by her. Her bark is worse than her bite.’ He smiles.
With the last dish in my basket, I knock at the door. Dusk is turning to nightfall but it’s still warm and muggy. More than anything I want a cold shower and to drop into bed. At least I haven’t been bitten by any more mosquitoes since I doused myself in lemon juice.
I take a deep breath, hoping Luca and Aimee are okay. I need to get back to them soon. I check my phone. They could get in touch if they needed me, but there are no messages. I’m feeling anxious, though, and want to be back with them as soon as possible.
The door opens. ‘Nonna Rosa? I’m from La Tavola. I’ve brought dinner,’ I say, immediately recognizing her from when she dropped off the lasagne at my house.
Alessandro is right. She has a very lined and hard face. She’s older than the other two, her house is a little bigger, and she’s twice as intimidating.
‘And I brought your dish back. Grazie ,’ I say, holding out the dish and the tinfoil box of food.
She reaches out and takes both. At first I think she isn’t going to invite me in but then she says, ‘I suppose you want to come in.’
Part of me wants to say no, then go home to the children, and undo the top button on my trousers, but I can’t. I promised Giovanni. And he helped with the electrics. It’s only right that I return the favour this evening. At least I’ve found a way to get all the dishes back to their rightful owners.
I don’t want people to think of me or the children as rude or standoffish. Marco would have wanted me to join in. He’d have been waiting at home to hear all about it when I came in.
I follow her inside. At least it’s cooler in here.
The table is set as it was in the other two houses, with a colourful tablecloth, a jug of water and wine glasses. I sit, without questioning it. I’m so full, I’m wondering if I could feign sickness and leave, or fake a phone call from the children, asking me to come home.
But before I can think of anything, another plate of pasta is put in front of me. I thank my lucky stars there is no antipasti as a forerunner to the main event.
I take another sip of wine and I’m feeling tired.
‘ Grazie mille for the lasagne,’ I begin. ‘It was very kind of you.’
‘So,’ she lifts a fork, and nods for me to do the same, ‘you are in Casa Luna.’
I put a piece of pasta on my fork, stare at it and am determined not to be beaten.
‘You are here with your children.’
‘I am.’
‘You said your husband he’s dead?’ she growls and the hairs on her chin even quiver.
I nod. I take a mouthful and chew quickly, washing the first down with a sip of water. I twist more pasta, hoping that the sooner I finish what I can, the sooner I can get away.
‘I see,’ she says, and encourages me to eat by nodding at the plate. I know that if I don’t carry on, she’ll think I don’t like it and find me something else,
I take a deep breath. ‘My husband …’
‘Marco,’ she confirms.
‘Yes.’ I brighten. ‘You met him when he was here?’
‘Yes,’ she growls again. I eat as quickly as I can.
I finish most of the bowl and put down the fork, like a weary marathon runner crossing the finish line. I ease down the last forkful with a large gulp of wine.
Nonna Rosa stares at me. I’m hot, and very, very full. I’d like to leave. ‘Your husband Marco,’ she says, narrowing her eyes. ‘It is a shame he’s gone.’
And I’m jolted back to when he first died. The pitying looks. Here, it had been good not to be ‘the young widow’ and just Thea.
I take a deep breath, mostly to ease my tight waistband, but it’s reached capacity and cuts into my stomach, making me wince.
‘He was a nice man. I was looking forward to speaking with him.’
‘Indeed,’ I say, and with that, I try to stand.
‘You haven’t had dessert!’ She’s affronted.
‘Perhaps,’ I say bravely, ‘I could take it with me, to share with the children.’
She nods curtly. ‘I will give you plenty,’ she says, and I’m definitely not going to insist she doesn’t. This is a non-negotiable situation.
‘How long will you be here for?’ she asks, cutting an almond tart into slices, then putting it into a tea-towel and tying it.
‘Till the end of August. I have to get the house finished. Or I have to pay the full price of the house to the previous owner.’
She nods. ‘Our mayor is looking out for the community,’ she says.
‘Yes. We never expected it to take so long to do it up. But things got in the way.’
‘They often do,’ she says, handing me the tea-towel with the almond tart inside it. ‘Like husbands dying when you don’t expect it.’
Suddenly I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I try to focus on the job in hand to stop me doing either. I remember the baking dish. ‘Well, thank you for the lasagne,’ I say handing it to her. ‘It was delicious.’
‘My mother’s recipe.’ She adds, ‘I will make you another.’
And my heart sinks into my very full stomach.
Outside, in darkness, the air is warm and sticky.
Alessandro is waiting as I leave the house, under the light from the moon.
I don’t need asking twice when he offers to take me back to La Tavola on the scooter instead of walking.
I’m so full, I don’t think I’ll ever look at or think about food again.