Chapter Six
Standing on the depot platform and watching the Denver and Rio Grande Railway train carrying Alrigo roll north washed a wave of loneliness over Gianna. After pressing forty dollars into her hand, her friend reiterated his willingness to return to Pueblo and collect her if things didn’t work out. When she could no longer see even a puff of smoke, she trudged back to her hotel room. Knowing Blake needed to work today, she told him she could entertain herself until he was done for the day and drove to town to collect her.
Yesterday, nothing she said or did was right. Missus Wymer even complained about the way she wiped the dinner dishes. Blake hadn’t said much in the crowded carriage ride back to the hotel. She suspected he resented Alrigo’s presence. Somehow, she needed to change Blake’s mother’s opinion…but how?
She turned the key in the hotel room lock and stepped inside. “Oh. Mi scusi.”
A maid sprang upright from smoothing the bedcovers. “Sorry, miss. I thought ye’d be gone fer the day.” She glanced at the box of cleaning supplies on the floor. “I can come back later.”
“Non preoccuparti.” Gianna waved a hand. “I’ll sit here, out of the way.” She watched the red-haired woman return to tidying the room. “My name’s Gianna. What’s yours?”
The maid wrinkled her brow as she looked over her shoulder. “I’m Molly.”
“Molly, I see you wear a wedding ring. Might I ask you a question?”
Blinking fast, Molly nodded. “I guess.”
“I traveled here from quite a distance to meet with a man I’ve shared a wonderful correspondence for months.” She plopped an elbow on the nearby chest of drawers and sighed. “A man I truly thought I wished to marry. In our letters, we shared so many things in common and seemed to be a good match.”
Molly sank to the mattress, a dust rag in her hand. “Like a mail-order bride?”
“I suppose that’s what I am, but without the promise of the official ceremony.” Her situation was nothing like she imagined when she first set foot on the Chicago and Rock Island train in Great Central Station.
Molly leaned an elbow on her knee and propped up her jaw. “So, what’s yer problem? Is he ugly? Too smelly? Likes his whisky a wee bit too much?”
She liked this woman’s frankness. Gianna laughed. “None of those. Blake is quite handsome and very kind.”
“Ahh, Blake Wymer?” Molly smiled and nodded. “I ken yer exact problem.”
“You do?”
“His ma—” Straightening, Molly clamped her lips tight.
Gianna rolled a hand. “Go ahead. Speak your mind.”
“I’ve heard the woman is a tad…unforgivin’. Me Sean’s ma didn’t like me, neither.”
“Veramente? What did you do?”
“Ignored her and set about wooin’ me Sean.” Molly nodded. “Cuz that’s who I’d be sharin’ me bed with, not his ma.”
When Gianna first traveled to Chicago, she moved in with a couple who’d been married several years. In the interim, she hadn’t thought to ask Luisa about her courtship with Tito. “And by wooing, you mean…?” Gianna crossed the room and sat on the mattress and patted the space beside her skirts.
“Well, I was friends with one of his sisters. I asked what his favorite meal was and I learned if he liked to fish or play cards in his spare time. Anything we both enjoyed and could do to spend time together.” Smiling, she sighed. “Turned out he’s quite the dancer. Ye should see him kickin’ up his feet and spinnin’ like a top. ’Tis a grand sight.”
Maybe, like Alrigo said, Gianna could introduce Blake to the food she loved to cook. “I saw a dartboard in his workshop.”
“There ye be, miss.” Molly clapped her hands. “Do ye ken how to play?”
Gianna crinkled her nose and shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Do ye have some paper? I’ll write me address. Me work day ends at three o’clock, and I’d be happy to give ye a few lessons in the next couple of days.”
“Meravigliosa.” Gianna jumped up and pulled her writing supplies from the top drawer. “I really appreciate your offer, Molly. I have to figure out how to get some time alone together.” Maybe they’d have to resort to inviting his brother along, if that was the only way to escape Missus Wymer’s presence.
~oOo~
As she walked down the hotel stairs, Gianna thought about what Molly said. Learning how to play Blake’s favorite game—and maybe Axton’s, too—was one thing. But making that gesture didn’t include their mother. Gianna couldn’t imagine living through a decades-long relationship that remained so contentious. She needed to overcome the molto brutto first impression she made at the depot plus with her familiarity with Alrigo and bringing wine into a house where alcohol was frowned upon.
A knot formed in her stomach. Maybe the situation couldn’t be fixed. She patted her reticule, glad for the extra forty dollars Alrigo slipped her as they were saying good-bye. If Blake didn’t want to continue their courtship, then she’d have to find a cheaper place to stay and figure out what to do next.
Blake and Axton really catered to their mother’s wishes. Some children believed it to be their duty…not that Gianna totally agreed. But by their ages—she knew they were in their mid-twenties—most men became heads of households. Back home in Salerno, men often remained in the house of their birth until they married, but they still worked at becoming successful.
That custom was not as widespread in America. She met many friends of Tito’s who struck out to individual homes or different states to make their mark on the world after finishing their college education. Not so many served apprenticeships in trades. Or maybe those men weren’t in Tito’s and Alrigo’s circle of acquaintances.
Outside the hotel entrance on the boardwalk, she looked right and left. The second of Molly’s tips related to food. If Gianna were to prepare an authentic Italian meal, she might gain favor in Missus Wymer’s eyes and, at the same time, share a piece of her soul. Who didn’t appreciate when someone else did the cooking? She turned back to the hotel and approached the counter, waiting as Mister Wilkins spoke with an elderly man.
The clerk jotted something in a book, then turned. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he grinned. “Miss Rafaello, how might I help you today?”
“I need directions to a butcher shop, a cheese store, and a green grocer. Can you help?”
“Pueblo has three butchers.” He leaned a hand flat on the registration counter. “The closest is Rudiger’s on Sixth and Santa Fe. He also stocks some cheeses. No green grocer, but Murray’s Mercantile sells vegetables.”
She smiled. “I know where the mercantile is.”
“Yes, miss. Just around the corner to the south and across on the opposite side.”
As she thought about what all she planned to purchase, she decided that was a good first stop so she could also buy a basket to carry the items in. “Thank you for your help.”
“Either Thomas or Barbara can give you directions to the butcher’s from their store.” He smiled. “Remember, it’s Rudiger’s.”
“I won’t forget.” Inspired with a plan, she left the lobby and set out, her pace lively. Hearing her steps echo on the planks reminded her of the differences from the places where she’d lived before. Cobblestones lined Salerno’s streets sans sidewalks while the ones in Chicago were concrete. Inside the store, she found a woven basket with a handle but the shape was shallow and not deep. Since it was the only style offered, she hooked it on her left arm along with her reticule and walked up the first aisle. No fresh tomatoes? She loaded four cans of stewed tomatoes into the basket and added a fat onion and a withered head of garlic. Does no one in this town use it?
Double-backing down the aisle of vegetable bins, she realized no fresh herbs were present. Already, the lasagna she intended to create would not be a prime example of Italian cuisine. For those who never tasted it, hopefully the lack of complete freshness wouldn’t be the focus.
“I noticed you walking down this aisle more than once.”
Gianna turned toward the soft voice and looked at a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair. Short wisps curled around her forehead and framed bright-blue eyes. “Ciao. I’m visiting in town.” She gave a shallow curtsey. “Gianna Rafaello. I’m looking for fresh herbs, but I don’t see any.”
“Sorry, we only carry dried of a few types.” She shrugged, and her apron strap slid off her shoulder. “Less waste. But I can measure as much or little as you need.”
“Buono. May I ask your name?”
“I apologize. I’m Barbara Murray. My husband and I own the store.”
“Then you are the exact person to assist me, Barbara.” Gianna beamed. “I’ll need…” Back home, Gianna usually pulled a few leaves off the plants growing outside the kitchen door on the patio. With dried, she would need less. Or did the flavor lessen with the drying process? Cupping her hand and envisioning what three full leaves chopped looked like in her palm, she followed the store owner to the counter. “I’m not sure about the difference between fresh and dried. But I want to have enough. So, what about a quarter cup of both basil and oregano and two tablespoons each of rosemary and thyme?”
Barbara’s eyes rounded. “All right.” She turned to the roll of brown paper on a shelf behind the counter and tore off a length. Then, with scissors she collected from a porcelain container, she cut the piece into two squares and two smaller rectangles. “No one’s ever bought this much at a time. May I ask what you’re preparing?”
How much to reveal? Since she talked with a married woman, she guessed Barbara found herself in a similar situation once. “Lasagna from my nonna’s recipe.” Gianna leaned over the counter. “I’m trying to impress the mother of someone I care about.”
Barbara’s head popped up, and she grinned. “I remember those days when Thomas and I courted. I wish you luck.”
“Grazie.” Gianna stretched an arm to the side like she waved toward the future. “Everyone has a story of how their love developed. Do you have a secret tip?”
“No matter how hard it is, find a time to stick up for the mother.”
Gianna wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know what this stick up for means.”
“Agree with her…even if speaking those words hurts.” Barbara rested a hand on the basket handle. “She might have just sniped that your firstborn is ugly.” She sniffled. “You just nod, then kiss that infant’s downy cheek and whisper in his ear that his mama loves him, no matter what.”
At the tremor in Barbara’s voice, Gianna covered her hand and squeezed. “That happened to you, non?”
Swiping at her cheek, she nodded. “Lordy be, I haven’t thought of that hurt in years.”
“Mi dispiace. That must have been hard.”
She straightened. “Well, let’s get back to business. What else do you need?”
“Some of your finest grade of flour…a pound should do. No, make that two pounds, a half-pound of butter, and six eggs.”
“We only have one type.” Barbara folded the paper into flat packets, writing on each one, then tied the stack with twine. “I’m not familiar with the dish you mentioned.”
“Lasagna?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “You’ve not heard of it?”
Barbara shook her head and moved toward a metal bin on a wooden stack in the corner. “No.”
“A dish with tomato sauce, meat, and cheeses baked between layers of pasta.”
“Sounds…interesting.” She set a rounded packet on the counter, then pointed toward a curtain. “I need to collect the eggs from the icebox in the back.”
Gianna perused the items in her basket. “Would you happen to stock ricotta cheese?”
“Sorry. Never heard of it.” Barbara disappeared from the store.
Gianna lifted the stack of packets and held it to her nose. With her eyes closed, she identified each herb by its scent. When she opened her eyes, she spotted Barbara watching her. “Mi scusi. These are the scents of my childhood.”
Barbara set the eggs along the perimeter of the basket. “Where’s that?”
“Salerno, Italy.” The words came out on a sigh.
“Italy?” Barbara smiled. “Are you related to a tall, black-haired man? He was so grateful for us finding him a bottle of wine.”
“Ah, certamente. He lauded the shop owners who searched until they found it.” She laughed. “No direct relation. The connection is by marriage through my cu, um, cousin back in Chicago.”
“I see.” Barbara bent over a notepad, writing down numbers as she tapped the items inside the basket. She pulled a price list from under the counter, did a calculation on another line, and double-checked the total. “That comes to two dollars and seventy-one cents. I know the total’s high, but the herbs—”
“Barbara, don’t be bothered.” Gianna tugged open the drawstrings on her reticule and pulled out a small money pouch. “The sum is what the numbers add to.” She counted out the money and laid it on the counter. “Now, if you can direct me to Rudiger’s butcher shop, then I can finish my purchases.”
On the three-block walk to the butcher’s, Gianna started worrying about the time ticking away. Both the sauce and the pasta would take an hour to prepare. Then once she assembled the dish, another hour was required for cooking. Will I need to hire a carriage to get to the Wymer’s house? The smell of yeasty bread caught her attention, and she stopped in front of a bakery. She ducked inside and scanned the glass display cases.
A dark-haired man looked up and rested a forearm on the case. “Ah, mademoiselle. What are you looking for?”
Hearing his accent, she broke into French, and they went through the introductions and her request for a loaf of rustic bread. She relayed her wish to impress someone.
“Non. Not here in my offerings.” Henrí swept an arm toward the case. He smiled and raised a pointer next to his cheek and winked. “But upstairs, in my apartment, I have one. Un moment.” Then he pushed through a swinging door and disappeared.
Gianna leaned over and scrutinized the items for sale. Dolce! She hadn’t given a single thought to what dish would end the meal. Cake or tart or pudding?
Henrí swept into the store, brandishing the long, flour-coated brown loaf. “Here it is.”
“Beautiful. And I’m torn between part of a marjolaine, or la tarte Normande, or the teurgoule.”
“May I ask who you are dining with? Perhaps they have shopped here, and I can guide your choice.”
“The Wymers. Do you know the furniture-making brothers?”
“Of them, I do.” He shrugged and spread out his upturned hands. “But, alas, they are not regular customers.” Henrí tapped a finger on his chin. “If they are like many Pueblo residents, they will at least recognize la tarte because it resembles apple pie.”
“You are so right. I’ll take la tarte.”
“The whole one?”
“Sì. Everyone loves dessert.” Then she gasped.
“Quoi?” His brows wrinkled.
“Coffee. I didn’t buy any at the mercantile, but I still have to get to the butcher shop.”
“Let me share some beans from my kitchen.” Again he disappeared, then popped back into the store, holding a small burlap bag.
“Henrí, you are so generous. Mil grazie.” She was happy that she made the spontaneous stop and still wore a wide smile when she entered Rudiger’s shop. Within the first step, she was surrounded by delicious smells—vinegary sauerkraut, spicy sausage, smoky bacon, rich beef. Inhaling deeply, she walked to the counter and set down her basket.
A stocky man wearing an apron stretched tight over a round stomach turned from a back counter. “What might I serve you, fraulein?”
Gianna’s command of German was shaky, and she didn’t wish to practice it in public. “Good afternoon, sir. Are you the owner?”
“Ja, I’m Otto Rudiger.” He squared his shoulders.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Gianna Rafaello.” She smiled at this auburn-haired man with thick forearms. “I need a mixture of ground sausage and beef.”
“You are combining in the same dish?” His reddish eyebrows lifted.
She nodded. “I like a mix of a little more beef than sausage.” As she thought of the bland meal she’d been served, she tilted her head. “But I’m preparing lasagna for people who might never have eaten it. So, maybe two-thirds beef.” She glanced to the other end of the case. “Do you have pecorino cheese?” At his headshake, she tapped a forefinger. “Romano?”
Another headshake.
What do these people use to flavor their meals? “Parmesan?”
“Ja, I have that.” He stepped sideways behind the case.
“I’ll have a pound.” Gianna shadowed his movements. “What about ricotta? No?” She spotted a whitish log. “What’s that?”
“Farmer’s…an unripened cow’s cheese.”
“Can you show me the consistency?” Watching him cut a thin slice confirmed she could use it as a replacement, as long as she mixed it with milk. “I’ll take the equivalent of two cups.”
“Otto?”
“Ja, schatzie. In front.” He angled toward the curtain, and his grin widened.
A petite woman stepped forward, a hand resting on her rounded belly. “I’m off to Mother’s for tea.” She leaned up and kissed Otto’s cheek. “Oh.” She pressed a hand on Otto’s arm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your customer.”
“Non preoccuparti.” Gianna smiled at the couple’s obvious devotion. “I can wait while you say good-bye to your marito.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that Italian you’re speaking?”
Otto slipped an arm over her shoulders. “Clarine, please meet Miss Gianna Rafaello.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Miss Rafaello, I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Clarine Wymer Rudiger.” He rocked back on his heels and grinned.
“Really? How delightful.” Smiling, Clarine hurried around the end of the counter. “Miss Rafaello, I’m so happy to meet you. Blake told me about your visit here.” She held out both hands.
Warmth swirled in her chest at this genuine greeting. She returned the handclasp. “I’m glad to be here. In fact, I decided I wanted to prepare a meal for the Wymers. Hiram at the hotel instructed me on the shops to visit. Barbara helped me with the basics, Henrí provided the bread from his own kitchen upstairs, and now I’m buying meat and cheese from your Otto.”
“Oh?” She gave a sideways glance toward her husband and back. “Does Mother know?”
What does that look mean?“Once I buy this final ingredient for my dish, I’ll make my way there.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Although I don’t know where the livery is.”
“Nonsense. I’m headed there, and you’ll ride in my buggy.” She waved a hand toward her husband. “Hurry with her order, honig.”
Gianna clapped her hands. “I have a meraviglioso idea. Why don’t you two join us? I adorare the chance to get better acquainted.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Clarine shook her head. “That hasn’t been pre-arranged.”
“Good food brings everyone together. The more, the merrier. My dish serves a dozen.” She waved a hand toward the paper-wrapped circle. “And I bought a whole tarte Normande from Henrí.”
“Ah, I can’t miss this meal.” Clarine smiled and blew a kiss toward her husband. “Be sure to close the shop in time to meet me there.”
Twenty minutes later, Gianna listened as her new friend convinced Missus Wymer to turn over her kitchen to a stranger and go sit in the parlor. “Grazie, Clarine.”
“I’m curious about what you’re making. Do you need help?”
Gianna gave Clarine a quick hug.. “You came to enjoy tea with your mother. And, given your condition, you should probably go have a chat and be off your feet.”
When she was alone, she set to work by chopping onions and garlic before setting them browning in a blob of butter while she opened the cans. Once the saucepan held all the ingredients, she moved it toward the back of the stove for the sauce to simmer. The herbs were added first with pinches followed by sprinkling another wide circle around the pan’s edge. She waved her hand across the bubbling mix to bring the scents closer.
Satisfied with the sauce, she turned to the pasta. Humming a song from “Guillaume Tell,” she shuffled her feet as she unloaded the rest of the items from the basket. Next, she mounded two cups of flour on the counter, broke the eggs into a crater, and mixed with her fingers until the dough came together into a ball. Only a few minutes of kneading created a smooth surface. Searching through the drawers, she drew out a dishtowel and covered the dough so it could rest for thirty minutes.
In the meantime, she set the meat into a cast iron pan while she mashed the cheese and added milk.
Footsteps sounded on the porch.
“What’s going on in here?” Blake walked close. “Gianna, you’re here…in Mother’s kitchen.” He stepped up to the stove and inhaled. “The smell is amazing.”
Ah, Blake just proved one of Nonna’s love tips—men could be lured by the scent of frying onions. Smiling, Gianna turned and wiped both hands on her apron. “I convinced your mother to let me cook supper. I’m making an old family recipe. Lasagna.” She made a shooing motion. “But I need my space so I can move con abbandono.”
“I can’t wait to taste it so I’ll not interfere.” He lifted his hands, palms forward, and backed out of the kitchen.
Making this recipe from memory moved her hands through the layering of the noodles, meat, sauce, and cheeses. Once the dish was in the oven, she made sure to clean all the pots and pans she used. Winning favor did not involve leaving a messy kitchen.
When the food was ready, Gianna asked Clarine to carry in the plates of slices bread and bowls of herbed butter. With the family gathered in the dining room, Gianna carried in the casserole dish and set it on a folded towel in front of Blake’s chair, where she’d stacked the six plates. “Here is a lasagna that I learned to make at my nonna’s side when I was just ten years old. And I bought this loaf of rustic bread, which is truly the staff of life, from Henrí—”
“Another of your male conquests?” Missus Wymer sniffed.
Gianna counted uno, due, tre, then met the woman’s gaze. “He’s the nice signore who owns Fremont’s Bakery. Have you never been in his forno?” In her pique, her Italian took over. She took a deep breath. After getting no response, she pointed at two bowls sitting at opposite ends of the table. “The bread tastes great with the rosemary butter.” And even better with a glass of red wine, but she wouldn’t repeat that mistake.
“Gianna, how do I cut this?” Blake held up a knife.
“Into three-inch squares and the spatula will help scoop out the portion.” Anxious to share her food, she delivered the servings around the table as they were plated. Then, she sat on the empty chair next to Blake and lifted her fork to slice off the corner.
From around the table came sounds of approval.
“Delicious.” Axton grinned and dug in his fork for a second bite.
“So yummy. I love all the flavors.” Clarine smiled from across the table.
“As tasty as the scent that’s filled this house for the past hour.” Blake stretched out his hand to squeeze hers.
They like it. Pride and satisfaction filled her. All the time and effort was worth it. Liking the food of her people was a step to liking her. My goal is achieved.
A fork clattered onto a plate. “Too heavy with all that cheese. Who eats sausage at supper?” She pushed her plate to the side.
Otto stiffened and gazed down at his plate.
Cheeks blushing, Clarine grabbed her husband’s hand and pulled it below the table’s surface.
Gianna’s heart went out to the man whose professional was just maligned. She narrowed her eyes at Missus Wymer’s frown.
After spreading butter onto a slice of bread, the older woman used the same knife to scrape off the green flecks. She nibbled at the crust and chewed, nostrils flared. The bread slice dropped to the plate. “Coarse texture. This is peasant food.” Miss Wymer shoved back from her place.
“Mother, where are you going?” Blake slapped a hand flat on the table.
“To find something in the icebox that won’t upset my stomach.” Missus Wymer headed out of the room.
Blake shoved to a stand. “I believe you owe Gianna an apology. She must have visited several stores to gather the ingredients and then worked hard to prepare this meal that everyone else is enjoying.”
Hearing him stand up for her warmed Gianna’s heart. Then she heard Barbara’s voice in her head—agree with her. Even if it hurts. “No, Blake. Please don’t say more.” Gianna lifted a hand in his direction. “We all have certain foods we don’t like.” He was right; she had put effort and love into preparing this dish. And the woman she’d hoped to please just rejected it…rejected her. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back with a hard swallow. “Your mother has a right to her opinion.”
Missus Wymer stood in the doorway for several moments, blinking fast, before she exited.
“Gianna…” Blake frowned.
She met his gaze, noting how his eyebrows pitched high over his nose. Concern? Worry? “I’m fine.” She pointed toward her painfully stretched mouth. “See my sorriso?”
Missus Wymer re-entered the room, carrying a plate, and reclaimed her chair. “This is more like it.”
Gianna recognized leftovers from the previous night.
“Clarine, you can appreciate this.” Missus Wymer glanced at her daughter as she cut a bite of meat. “An unexpected guest forced me to be creative about stretching the food. Your brothers can back me up on this.” She glanced at Blake and Axton.
Neither son looked her way, and they focused on a second portion of lasagna.
Seeing that, Gianna bit back telling them thank-you. She clung to anything positive from this meal.
“Well, instead of serving individual cutlets like I intended, I cut each in thirds. Wasn’t that clever?”
Clarine looked at her brothers, then at her mother. “Yes, Mother.”
Missus Wymer popped the food into her mouth and chewed. “Hmm. I think the cutlet absorbed more of the gravy by being in smaller pieces. Imagine something good came of that unwanted surprise.”
Heat invaded her cheeks, and Gianna ducked her chin. Did Barbara mean I now have to agree with everything? Impossibile. For the woman to point out Gianna’s wish to be hospitable to Alrigo after his generosity in being her travel companion was inexcusable. No one turned away a solitary visitor from their table. She pushed her last bites of lasagna around her plate, but her enjoyment of the food was gone. If the food she created wasn’t acceptable and her behavior was deemed inappropriate, what hope was there for a relationship with Blake? Pushing to a stand, she scanned the table’s occupants while ignoring her. “Who’s ready for dessert and coffee?”