Chapter 2 Elisa #2
Giliola shrugs, disinterested. If she only knew . . . “Let’s hope Charles arrives in time for the Schiacciata Festival. We should tell the Pro Loco committee to include him on the jury as an honorary judge.”
The Schiacciata Festival is a no-holds-barred competition: sabotaged leavening, ingredient theft, broken ovens . . .
Until five years ago, we made the schiacciata at home and brought them to the jury for a tasting, but Giliola accused Mamma of presenting a schiacciata so perfect that it must have come from the baker, and since then the whole process has taken place publicly in Belvedere’s little square.
Much to Giliola’s dismay, Mamma won again the following year, effectively proving that hers was the best of the best.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be here for the occasion,” observes Giada acidly. “I bet he can’t wait.”
“Men like women who know how to cook,” replies Giliola. “But what do you know about cooking, Miss Priss? And those fingernails! You couldn’t even peel a potato.”
“Then I’ll be going in style, because I’m not the least bit interested in peeling potatoes,” Giada retorts, and I applaud her in my head.
There’s another knock at the door. Giliola and her daughter perk up, but when Mamma opens the door to Angela and her daughter Sara holding a tray of liver crostini, their faces twist into a disappointed grimace.
“Is he here?” asks Angela anxiously.
“No,” Donatella replies dryly.
“Oh, we thought he’d be here by now. He and Vannucci the notary were supposed to arrive this evening.”
“And somehow they’ve yet to appear,” reiterates Mamma. Angela and Sara join us inside, exchanging resentful glances with Giliola and her daughter. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Indeed,” replies Giliola.
“What a beautiful, relaxed atmosphere,” I comment ironically. “Anyone want some chamomile tea? A sedative? A horse tranquilizer, perhaps?”
“Do you have any glue?” Giliola asks. “That way we can seal Angela’s mouth shut once and for all.”
“Whose mouth would you of all people like to shut?” protests Angela.
“You heard me. I know you say I’m cheap behind my back, you old bat.”
“It’s the truth. You asked me for your old aluminum cannelloni mold back, and when I told you I’d thrown it out, you got mad and demanded I buy you a new one,” Angela replies.
“Okay, I lent you my cannelloni mold, and I’m the cheap one!”
“You made yours with eggs from my chickens.”
“You gave them to me!” replies Giliola, increasingly flustered. “You gave them to me because you had too many and were going to throw them away.”
Donatella gets up from the table, her tea in hand. “I think I still have time to add an extra shot to my tea after all.”
Knock, knock, knock.
This time, it’s Fiorella and Paola, with her famous quick-setting cantuccini.
Mamma quashes their enthusiasm before they can even open their mouths. “No, Charles isn’t here. We have no idea when he’s coming.”
As if the initial disappointment weren’t enough, as soon as Fiorella spots Angela and Giliola, she gives me a hurt look as if to say, I thought we said you’d call me first.
Wedding fever has spread through Belvedere once again, and at this rate I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a run on Bride Magazine down at the newsstand.
The air in the room is saturated with estrogen: daughters on the hunt, mothers competing, and we—an awkward quartet in the form of a grumpy widow, a bitter auntie, a former teen mom, and a party girl—are bearing witness to the carnage.
At the fourth knock at the door, Mamma, exhausted, seizes her rolling pin. “I’ll take care of this,” she threatens.
But, to our amazement, instead of yet another mother-daughter duo, it’s Vannucci, the notary. “I’m not armed,” he says, defending himself from Mamma, hands in the air.
“Oh, Vannucci, finally. Welcome to the circus. Come tame these tigers. We give up.”
He enters, intimidated, looking like someone who would rather be elsewhere. “Good evening, everyone.”
The mothers and daughters attack him with a barrage of questions: “Where is Charles?” “Will you introduce him to us tonight?” “Has he eaten dinner yet?”
Vannucci scratches his head, hesitating. “Well, actually, I’m here to inform Mrs. Donatella and Elisa that Charles has decided to decline his inheritance.”
An ominous silence falls over the kitchen. Only Giliola, after several seconds of disbelief, has the courage to open her mouth. “So he’s not here with you?”
“He’s in London. He’s handing over the estate to his closest relatives.”
“I knew it!” mutters Mamma. “Those hideous Ricasolis of Pontassieve! Then again, between the broken gate, the boiler, the garage, and the clogged flue, they will really need to shell out; otherwise, everything here will go to pieces.” Mamma, as befits a housekeeper, always sees the practical side of things and doesn’t even think about the girls’ shattered dreams, even as their long faces practically stretch to the ground.
“I’m sorry. I should receive his formal renunciation in a few days. I have to go. Good night.”
But his hopes of quietly slipping away die when the convoy of mothers follows him out, bombarding him with questions about why and how it could be that Charles didn’t accept.
Mamma, Giada, Donatella, and I are finally left alone, in the newfound peace of the house, but instead of calm, I feel a burning in my chest.
The moment I heard about Charles’s hypothetical return, my mind immediately flew to Michael, his best friend.
He and his older brother, George, always visited the Bingleys in the summer, and Michael and I were very close.
We had the same instinct for trouble, were both incapable of sitting still, and were constantly on the lookout for a new adventure.
And we always dragged poor Carletto—Charles, now that he’s in London—along on our escapades.
As silly as it may seem—fifteen years having passed—I found myself thinking that Michael might have come with Charles, just like when we were kids.