Chapter 3 – Bea
I’m helping another customer when my phone goes off. I wait to wrap up with her before looking at it.
But when I do, I see that it’s a text from Marco.
“What is it? Your face is pale?” Micky asks after sweeping nearby, which was kind of an Evergreen task, seeing as there were permanent stains from years past.
“Marco’s mother is in town. She wants to have dinner with all of us tonight.”
“Whoa. Meeting the mother. That’s intense.”
“Yeah. I don’t know anything about her—other than the fact that she’s from Italy and has a successful jewelry business there.”
“Oh! Maybe she’ll have some pieces for you!”
“Yeah, right.” It’s not like I cared for jewelry that much in the first place—I just had the staples that I constantly wore.
“Well? Are you going to go?”
“I guess so . . .”
“Does that mean that she knows about the two of you?”
“I would assume that she does, right?”
“You’d think.”
I go to text him back several times but bail each time. Then, my anxiety bubbles over, and I feel like I have to do a little dance to shake it out of my body. “Ahhh!”
“What?”
“I’m just nervous.”
“Of course you are. If you don’t get mommy’s approval, you can practically say goodbye forever.”
“Mackenzie! You are not helping!”
“Sorry. I’m just kidding. I’m sure it will be fine.”
I’m about to panic again when I get another message from him.
“Oh, thank God. I don’t have to cook. We’re getting takeout from Anthony’s.” So, at least that pressure is taken off my back.
“Yum! Their cauliflower risotto is to die for.”
“Yeah.”
I continued working throughout the rest of the day as I imagined the worst-case scenarios—What if I spill sauce on her designer clothes? What if she asks me about something sophisticated, and I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about?
But the warm welcome I got from Aurora and Alessia upon entering his home later that night helped calm me down a little.
“Bea! Bea!” they both yell.
“Hi, girls!” I bend down in the nicest outfit I have—an olive-green sundress with a black cardigan over it—and open my arms to welcome them in.
“Look what I made at school!” Alessia holds up a drawing of a skeleton with labeled body parts.
“Wow! That’s so cool.”
“I made one too,” Aurora says before stomping over to the counter and showing me hers.
“They’re both really great.”
Then, the cooling presence of a woman I’d never seen before makes me stand up straight again.
“Hello, Mrs—”
“Louisa, please.” She puts her hand out for me to shake.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Louisa,” I say while accepting and awkwardly curtseying.
“And I understand that you are Bea Carter?”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“Pleased to meet you.” As I look her up and down, I immediately see where Marco gets his dark hair from. And she’s wearing a dark shade of lipstick that I would never dare trying to pull off, although my best friend certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about rocking.
“Ah! I see you’ve already met,” Marco remarks while carrying bags in from the garage.
“Yes, we have.”
“Do you need help with those?” I ask.
“Nah, I got it. Thanks, though.”
“Sure.”
After he puts everything down, I want to hug him and press my face against his strong chest muscles. But I know I can’t do that without raising his daughters’ eyebrows. They’ve never so much as seen us touch. I wish we could just come out in the open with them, but I have to respect his opinion on that. Plus, I haven’t told my parents yet—although I’m not entirely sure why.
His mother and I engage in small talk while he gets all of the food, plates, and necessary utensils out.
“Okay, I tried to get a little bit of everything for us. There’s cauliflower risotto, lasagna, and chicken alfredo.”
We let him get his girls sorted before we go in.
“I hope this lives up to your standards,” I comment.
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I think it’s pretty good . . . especially for being from our neck of the woods.”
“Have you lived in Hazelhurst all of your life?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean that you went to school with Clara?”
I haven’t heard her name in a bit, so I pause in an effort even to remember who she’s talking about.
“Oh! The girls’ mom? No, no. She was significantly older than me.”
“As is my son.”
I feel a golf ball-sized wad of spit accumulates in my throat.
“Yes, that’s true.” I don’t want to look her in the eyes, so I keep loading more food than I could ever eat on my plate.
“Yet you find that you’re compatible?”
“Um, yes. Very.”
She raises her nose into the air. “Interesting.”
“I guess.” Then, I hurry along to the table.
Then, I’m just about to dig my fork to get my first bite when Louisa says, “Shall we pray?”
I’m embarrassed and try my best to set everything down before clasping my hands and bowing my head.
“Amen,” she says at the end, and I follow. “Okay, let’s eat.”
Finally, my stomach has been growling since I got the first whiff of the food. I’ve been eating Tony’s cooking since I was a little girl, and it never disappointed me.
“Well?” Marco asks.
His mother takes her time to chew and taste the food in her mouth, but she ultimately says it is good.
Thank goodness.
“Sure, it’s no Osteria Francescana. But it’s edible.”
I wasn’t sure what that was, but I guessed it was a fancy restaurant in Italy.
Marco lets out a belly laugh. “Well, no. Of course not. Anthony’s doesn’t have any Michelin stars. That’s for sure.”
This is the first time I’ve seen him express his “worldliness” and kind of put down where I come from.
I knew the family personally who prepared the food before us, and I was a little offended on their behalf.