11. Nonna’s Spaghetti Recipe

ELEVEN

Note: By hand dosnt mean WITH your hand!!!

"K, so now you're going to julienne the carrots and roast them while the sauce cooks. They'll be good on the side."

"Who's Julianne, and what the heck does she have to do with carrots?" I demanded right before I dropped the two knobby carrots onto the wood cutting board.

The bespectacled face of my sister, Marie, blinked at me through my iPad screen. It was an expression that, up until last summer, I'd woken up to almost every day of my life. The one that wondered How are you my sister? right before we shared and then tore all our secrets apart between us.

I used to hate that look. Until it was gone. Which was probably why I'd begged her to teach me how to make Nonna's spaghetti via FaceTime two weeks after moving into Nathan's apartment. Homesickness appears in lots of different ways, and apparently, mine made me want to do more than make toast for the first time in my life.

Well, maybe homesickness wasn't the right word.

I didn't exactly miss Belmont per se, which surprised me. The people, definitely. But I was never getting my family back the way I wanted. Meanwhile, it was hard to miss a leaky house in need of cosmetic repairs and new windows when I was living in the lap of luxury with as much hot water as I could ever use. Since I could no longer hear the B60 bus through the night, I was also sleeping better than I ever had.

But there were certain things I wished were available. The amaretti from Gino's. My favorite prosciutto from the market. And Nonna's cooking. After weeks of grabbing cheap slices and microwave dinners, I needed some real food. And I knew just who I wanted to share it with.

"It's a method of cutting them," Marie said impatiently, then proceeded to describe how.

I frowned as her directions went in one ear and out the other. I never took oral directions well.

"How about I just do that?" I said, then whacked a carrot with one of Nathan's expensive-looking knives. "You know, that's probably why I moved in with a complete stranger. He wears glasses, and he looks at me just like that when I say something silly."

"I didn't look at you like anything," Marie said as her dismay deepened while she watched me butcher the carrots. "Are you cleaning while you cook? It doesn't look like it."

I glanced around me at the kitchen, which was, admittedly, a disaster from my efforts. "Baby steps. Tonight, I learn to cook. Tomorrow, clean." I tossed the carrots in olive oil as she had directed and put them into the toaster oven on the counter. I'd clean up the drips of oil later. "Okay, carrots are in. What's next?"

"Check your sauce. If the tomatoes are cooked, you can take it off the heat and sprinkle the basil by hand."

I nodded. "On it. So, how's Paris?"

At first glance, Marie and I looked nothing alike despite sharing the same dark hair, green eyes, and olive skin as the rest of our siblings. In school, most people didn't realize we were related until they saw our last names. I was the coquette at the center of every party, who constantly tested the limits of dress code and curfew and had a new boyfriend every week. Marie was the wallflower who skipped every school dance, preferred Nonna's company to class friends, and had never met an ankle-length skirt she didn't like.

But in the six months since she had moved to Paris, I could already see some subtle changes. Her waist-length hair, which was always tied back in a mumsy bun, had been layered a bit to flow nicely around her face. The wire-rimmed glasses had been traded for some sexy librarian specs, and I thought I could detect a swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. She'd even gotten her ears pierced. Finally.

The wallflower was fading. Or at least thriving in a totally new garden.

I was happy for her. Mostly.

Marie just sighed. "All right. My French is actually getting halfway conversational. Enough that I could actually go to a market outside of the city last weekend and people understood me."

"Make any friends yet?" I dipped a finger into the sauce and tasted it. I didn't know what I was tasting for, but it seemed all right. Maybe a little bland. I added more salt.

"Don't put too much of that. And yes, I have some friends."

"Lost your virginity yet?"

Marie's face flushed. "I thought you weren't going to make fun of me for that anymore."

I sighed. "Sorry. Old habits."

"Bad habits."

"I'll add it to the list of the others I'm trying to break," I said. "But seriously, no guys? Or girls. Whatever floats your boat—I don't judge."

"Why does life have to be about them?"

I frowned as something occurred to me. "Mimi, you aren't into girls, are you? Or pan or something? It would be okay with me if you were, you know. I wouldn't care at all."

Marie just huffed. "Joni, just because I haven't slept with half of New York?—"

"Or Paris," I added as I threw the mound of basil on the cutting board into the sauce.

"Or Paris?—"

"Or anyone," I put in.

"Joni!"

I just chuckled. "Sorry. Go on."

Marie sighed. "I was just saying, that doesn't mean I'm not into men. Which…I am. I guess—Jo! What are you even doing?"

I looked up from where I had inserted my hand into the lukewarm tomato sauce past my wrist. "What? You said to mix in the basil by hand, so that's what I'm doing."

"Jo, that just means with a spoon, not shove your whole hand into the sauce. And I said sprinkle by hand, not mix. As a garnish." Marie smacked a hand to her forehead. "How much basil did you put in there?"

"Um, all of it?" I looked down at the sauce, now riddled with ribbons of basil that were quickly wilting into blackish wormy things. "The sauce is kind of brown now. Is it supposed to look like that?"

"Is marinara sauce supposed to look like brown sludge?"

I huffed. "Why do you have to be such a know-it-all, Mimi?"

The banter was purely out of habit; I was already moving to the sink to wash the sauce off my hand.

"Just put it back on the stove and cook it down. Maybe we can blend it up into a pesto-kind of thing."

"So, tell the truth," I said after I returned to the stove, where I could both talk and stir the sauce with a spoon instead of my hand. "You haven't hooked up with one French hottie?"

Immediately, Marie turned the color of a red, red rose as she turned away from her desk.

She'd given me a tour of her tiny French apartment, which had a great view from the top floor of her building but, as a former maid's quarters, was about the size of a shoebox. Right now, she was lying on her twin bed/couch, fiddling with a recipe she wanted to bring to class the next morning.

"Mimi, come on," I said when she didn't respond. "How can you still be a virgin in the city of love? Half the point of you going to Paris was to give it up at last."

"I came to Paris to learn to be a chef, you brat. And that's exactly what I'm doing. I don't have time to date."

"Is it that? Or are you still saving yourself for your boss?"

Her cheeks went from red to outright scarlet. "Daniel is not my boss."

"He's your boss's son, which is basically the same thing," I said, enjoying the upper hand.

My sister had worked for the extremely wealthy Lyons family in Westchester since she was sixteen, first as a part-time maid, then as an assistant cook. When their cook announced her retirement, the family decided to send her to Paris to train as her replacement.

They knew she was talented as a chef. What they didn't know is that she had been in love with one of their sons, Daniel Lyons, since she had first started working there.

"Let me ask: does he even know you exist?" I wondered. "Did you even say goodbye before you left?"

She was avoiding the screen like her phone was the one staring at her instead of me. "I did."

"Did you do what I suggested?"

Her glare was immediate. "Did I wait in his bedroom naked? Absolutely not. Not everyone is comfortable walking around in their birthday suit like some people I know."

I giggled. Just the idea of my prudish sister, who was generally more covered up than a nun, showing more than an ankle to her crush, was hilarious.

"It's called body confidence, dude. You should try it. It might get you laid."

"Not everyone jumps into bed with a person right after meeting them," Marie mumbled. "Maybe you should try not doing that for once. You might get more done in your life."

I opened my mouth to argue back but found I couldn't. I was too busy smiling.

"What is it? Are you laughing at me? It's not my fault you messed up the sauce."

I tipped my head. "Just enjoying myself."

I guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

"I did go to his room," Marie admitted just when I was rooting around Nathan's spice cabinet in hopes of finding something—anything—to save this dinner. "Daniel's, I mean."

I swung around with a sudden motion that sent oregano everywhere. "What? You never told me that! What happened?"

Marie shrugged while she toyed with a pencil. "I snuck up there on my last night after I'd finished cleaning up from the catering. The family was having a party, and it was still going on. But when he came up, he, um, had someone with him. The daughter of one of the guests, apparently."

"Oh my God, tell me they didn't?—"

Marie shook her head, color high. "I can still hear her. She sounded like Nonna's old tea kettle. But I swear, there was no way to sneak out of there without being seen, so I just had to sit there, hiding between his suit pants while they did it."

"So you just listened to your crush getting it on with another woman? You are such a perv!"

"I am not!"

I slapped a hand over my mouth, unable to keep giggles from spilling out. The idea of my virginal sister crouched in a closet like a bystander in a bad porno was too much. No wonder Marie had agreed to stay in France for longer than originally planned. Pining or not, she undoubtedly had no desire to relive any part of that night.

"So, how did you finally get out? I know you came home that night. You were always back like four hours before curfew."

She sighed but let the insult slide. "They left right after."

"Ew, so he doesn't even cuddle? Sounds like a douche."

"Daniel is not a douche. They were just, I don't know, going to a party or whatever. Daniel was always going to parties."

I didn't comment on the wistfulness in her voice. It was the same way I used to talk about Broadway—a supposed pipe dream I couldn't help but chase while most people thought I was sad and pathetic for even trying for it.

Well, I showed them.

For a few weeks, anyway.

Then again, while I'd certainly never met Daniel Lyons, I'd seen more than enough of him in Page Six. The guy seemed to have a new model on his arm every week. They tracked him like big game hunters on safari.

It was yet another reason why Marie's crush on him was so sad. She was so far from the man's type, she might as well have been in outer space.

"Unfortunately, right before I left, his brother came in looking to borrow a belt and found me emerging from beneath a pair of Hugo Boss suits."

My jaw dropped along with my spoon, which left a big splat of brownish tomato goop on the hardwood floor. "The old one?"

There were two Lyons brothers—Daniel was the younger media darling, while the older one, whose name I couldn't remember, was a serious older man who ran the company, apparently.

"Lucas isn't that old. He just turned forty."

I made a face as I looked him up on my phone. "Old enough. And he looks at least fifty."

"It's the bow ties."

"Or the scowls." I shook my head and put my phone back on the stand so I could see Marie. "Too serious for me."

Is he?

The question chimed through my mind alongside Nathan's generally solemn face. Yeah, it was a bit hypocritical of me to be criticizing Lucas Lyons for being too serious when I was currently lusting after my own Clark Kent lookalike.

"So, what did he say?" I asked, if only to keep the conversation moving away from that train of thought.

Marie toyed with one of her waves that had curled into a loose corkscrew near her chin. "He just sort of stared at me. Then asked if he could help me find anything."

"And what did you say?" I prodded. I knew an invitation when I heard it.

Marie just blinked. "I didn't say anything. I was mortified and barely managed to scramble out of the room like a mouse."

"Marie. Come on. ‘If you give a mouse a cookie'…she needs to eat the whole damn thing instead of running away from it," I recited, remembering our favorite book when we were little. "That man was making a play, Mimi. ‘Can I help you with something?' means he wants to help you find his dick."

Two eleven-shaped lines appeared between Marie's brows. "What?"

"Don't do that," I said. "You're going to look like Nonna before you're thirty."

"But—he—what—no—I—" She was sputtering more than the boiling water cooking my pasta.

I smirked. "Try again, Mimi."

"Lucas Lyons was not making a move on me!" she erupted.

I snorted. "He was moving so hard, he was a moving truck. Eighteen-wheeler, sis. Ready to go cross country."

Marie just shook her head. "You're nuts."

"No, I'm right. It's too bad you're in love with his brother. You could have popped that cherry then and there."

Okay, fine, I was being obnoxious. But just like I missed Marie's face and her smudged glasses and her nun-like getups, I missed riling her up.

She was just another part of home I had a feeling I'd never get back. Not really.

"I think we should talk about your love life." Marie pulled me out of that line of thinking. "I hear your new roommate is a dish. Lea thinks he's going to break your heart, and Kate wants him to model for her shop."

"Lea can mind her own business. And Kate's mothball suits are too good for him."

"Is this dinner for him?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. I thought it might be nice. He's kind of throwing me a lifeline over here."

"That's a first. You giving back to someone like that, I mean."

I made a face at her, but I didn't argue. She wasn't wrong. Okay, so maybe my siblings were right. Maybe I was a little spoiled, though maybe it wasn't my fault. It was easier in a family of eight for the older kids to do stuff for Marie and me rather than waiting for their baby sisters to make it through small tasks at a painfully slow rate. It was why I didn't learn to tie my shoes until I was ten. Or why I'd never done dishes until Matthew, Lea, and Kate had all moved out. And it was why, yes, I barely knew how to make anything in the kitchen.

But I was a Zola, after all. Food was our love language. I could understand it just fine, even if I was just starting to speak it.

I didn't ask myself why I wanted to put in the effort all of a sudden. It wasn't because Nathan had been doing small things like this for me since I'd moved in two weeks ago. Every morning, I found a cup of espresso waiting for me in the fridge, ready to be poured over ice or a cappuccino on the days I managed to get up before eight. Which had been happening a lot more often.

It wasn't just coffee, either. Two days ago, I'd discovered that my shampoo, which had been down to watery remains, had been replaced. When I mentioned the fact that I struggled to sleep in the mornings after my late shifts, I came home the next day to find that blackout curtains had been installed in my bedroom.

I was being taken care of as an individual for the first time in my life. Rather than large sweeping moves meant to take care of six kids or help the youngers keep up, these small gestures were just for me. From Nathan.

"For what it's worth, Lea said Mike actually likes the guy," Marie said.

I nodded. "Yeah, Mike told me that too. Well, he sent me a three-word text. ‘He's all right' is basically an essay in Scarrone."

Marie chuckled. "For sure. Lea's still worried, though."

"Lea's always worried."

"Promise me something?"

"What's that?" I looked up from where I was stirring the pasta. Had it been in the pot for ten minutes already? I'd forgotten to start the timer.

"Don't sleep with him."

I set down the spoon and glared at her.

Marie, however, didn't shy away. "Jo, I mean it. Don't mess up a good thing."

"What, do you think I'm just giving it up for room and board now?"

I didn't mention the fact that I had already imagined it more than once. Nathan was very clean, and it was hard not to imagine him in the shower running on the other side of the bedroom wall when I was trying to go to sleep. More than once, I'd let my hand drift down under the covers, and my brain meander where it wanted, which was imagining what the water looked like running over that big body.

Then, last night, I'd come out to get myself some tea and ran smack into him when he was coming out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Drops of water were still clinging to his shoulders and the solid patch of hair over his chest.

Turns out the muscles in those grab-a-girl shoulders extended right down his torso like a stepladder and disappeared beneath his towel in that strong, extremely lickable V-shape. Mother, may I.

I'd just stared, unable to pull my jaw off the ground. Nathan, unfortunately, had done the same thing, and so we'd just looked at each other like a couple of idiots, mouths hanging open while water drops fell to the ground from his wet hair, for at least a minute until someone's phone buzzed. I think it was mine. Maybe it was his. By the time I'd scurried back to my room, I'd been too distracted to check.

But my dreams had been very good.

"I know you," Marie persisted. "You like to be admired. I also know that when you feel down on yourself, you go looking for strangers to make you feel better. Or even worse, Shawn."

"Yeah, well, it's better than sitting in my room waiting for someone who doesn't know who I am."

I waited for another comeback, but none came. Well, that was a change. Six months ago, Marie would have cut right back at me. Now, she didn't even seem interested in the fight, even with a blow like that.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "That was low."

"It's also probably true," she said with a sigh. "But you're also worth more."

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. I don't think Nathan is interested in me that way."

Nathan noticed me. He definitely thought I was attractive. I knew that. I knew it because he couldn't quite stop his gaze from traveling up and down my legs when I wore my admittedly small pajama shorts. And once, when I'd dropped a bunch of dried macaroni on the floor of the kitchen and had to pick it up, I'd looked up to find him staring down my oversized tank top and licking his lips. Only for a second. But it had still happened.

Yet whereas, every other red-blooded, hetero-leaning man in New York would have made a move by now, especially after we already made out once before, Nathan had been a perfect gentleman since I'd moved in.

It was as if the kiss in Tom's office had never happened, replaced with a deal that was saving my life. Now, I was just trying to keep my end of the bargain. For the first time in my life, I wanted to carry my weight as best I could.

Tonight, that meant dinner. And doing my best not to imagine my roommate naked.

I needed my sister to temper those urges. No one else shut down my crazy side better than she did.

"I miss you," I admitted.

"You do?" Marie looked legitimately surprised. Well, why wouldn't she? I had never been particularly nice to her.

But things were different now. Somehow, she'd stopped being my annoyingly shy older sister. Maybe I could be more than the family brat, too.

"Yeah," I said. "I miss my sister. You're the only one who tells me like it is but doesn't treat me like I'm stupid."

"I don't know about that. I've called you an idiot more than once."

"Yeah, but you never meant it, any more than when I make fun of you for being a virgin. It was just what we did. Lea…she means it. And Kate too. Matthew, Frankie, Nonna. They all do. To them, I'm just poor, dumb Joni, who can't get her shit together."

Marie sighed. "They don't think you're dumb, Jo."

"They do," I said bitterly. "And maybe they're right. But I don't want to be like that anymore."

Marie tipped her face on the screen. She didn't wear the same doubtful expression our other family members always had. It was something more like curiosity. As if she was waiting for me to figure out the last piece of a puzzle.

I wished she could tell me what it was.

"Well," she said. "If I can move all the way to Paris without knowing a soul, you can probably stand on your own two feet too."

I smiled. "You think so?"

"Of course. Out of all of us, you've always been the most fearless. It's annoying, really. Like there's nothing you can't actually do if you try."

I leaned closer to the screen. "Damn, Mimi. I didn't know you felt that way."

She just smiled back. "Me neither, as it happens."

I went back to stirring the sauce, if only for something to do.

"Joni?"

I looked up. "Yeah?"

"I miss you too."

Sister to sister, we watched each other through the screen for a little bit longer, neither of us talking.

Then the front door opened and closed.

"Mimi, I gotta go," I said. "Dinner time."

"Okay, but maybe strain the sauce to get out the extra basil," she suggested. "It will make it look less clogged. Oh, and don't forget the fresh grated Parm?—"

"Thank you, bye!"

I ended the video and went to strain the pasta. It seemed a little too soft, but I figured it would be all right. No one was as picky about pasta as my family.

Nathan walked into the kitchen, looking like he had just gotten back from the gym. He had traded his typical button-down and slacks for athletic shorts and a synthetic shirt that clung to his muscles in a disturbingly hot way. The fact that he was still wearing his glasses only added to the Superman effect of the clothes—surgeon by day, bodybuilder by night.

Lord, I was in trouble.

He seemed to be on autopilot as he walked in, rubbing his chin but stopped exactly two steps into the kitchen.

"Hi!" I greeted him as I dumped the steaming spaghetti into a bowl. "Surprise! I made us dinner. You hungry?"

He looked around the kitchen, brown eyes growing wider by the second as they took in the mess.

"Joni?" His voice was hoarse, almost like he'd lost it. "What the hell did you do to my kitchen?"