Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

OCTOBER 2019

Thursday

Callie came downstairs the next morning to find a crowd of people in the lobby, all with suitcases and overnight bags. The people were speaking a range of languages, and were hugging each other and tapping on their phones. She thought she recognized some of them from the dinner last night. There was also a middle-aged woman with a floral apron and sneakers walking around with a clipboard. Callie remembered how Oliver had said that the class Pam had enrolled in was finishing up last night. She assumed that these were the students, all getting ready to leave.

The woman saw her and came over. "Signora Crain?" she said. " Sono Renata. I am Emilia's assistant. I'm sorry, my English is not good. Vorresti la colazione? Breakfast? In the dining room, please help yourself. I will be in soon when I have everyone organized here. I can make you an espresso when I'm finished here. Or we have filter coffee in the urn…"

"I'll pour myself coffee from the urn, that's fine. People from the class are checking out?"

Renata nodded. "Yes, I am trying to help everyone make it back to the station to catch the right train."

"Where is Emilia?" Callie asked.

"Upstairs. Emilia doesn't like goodbyes." Renata turned to another guest who was waving in her direction. " Si, mi despacio . Let me check the schedule for you again…"

Callie went to the dining room. There was a beautiful display of meats, cheeses, and grapes on the dining room table, with a single lily in a vase as the centerpiece. Callie went to the breakfront and poured some coffee into a cup from a silver urn, then brought it to a small, heated sunroom just beyond the dining room. She put her cup there, then went back and filled a plate with cheese, bread, and grapes. Everything smelled delicious. She sat down and put some butter on her bread. She knew she couldn't keep eating like this, the way she'd eaten last night and now this morning. The food was so rich, and she didn't want to come back ten pounds heavier. Still, it was a pleasure to eat food so beautifully presented and prepared.

Emilia doesn't like goodbyes . She heard Renata's words echo in her ears. She was the same way. "Why can't you just come here before you move, if you really are determined to move?" Pam had said.

"I can't," Callie had answered. "I don't like goodbyes."

She thought back on that moment now. What was it about Emilia and her? Why did she feel this connection to this ninety-one-year-old woman she'd just met? Why did she want so badly for Emilia to like her, to trust her, to talk to her? She couldn't explain it now, just as she couldn't explain it last night to Oliver. But she knew that Emilia was unhappy beneath her toughness. And she wanted to get to the root of that unhappiness. Because for some inexplicable reason, she thought maybe she could get to the root of her own as well. She'd cut off her sister, although she'd never phrased it like that before. She'd cut Pam off when she moved, because she didn't want to see Pam until she felt good about herself. And yet in Philadelphia, she'd been lonely, a very deep kind of lonely, a loneliness that Emilia seemed to feel as well. Callie felt there might be a way through that if she and Emilia connected.

And of course, she wanted to know what her grandmother had done to make Emilia so mad.

She took a sip of coffee and a bite of the cheese. She didn't know what she was going to do today. She supposed she could go to town and shop for souvenirs for Joe and the baby, for when she finally told Joe what she'd found in Pam's drawer. She supposed she could bring home some packaged foods or coffees or a toy for Chloe. At least that would give her something productive to do if she didn't get a chance to see Emilia today.

A few moments later, though, she heard footsteps on the stairs, and then Emilia appeared in the doorway of the dining room. Renata approached her, and they spoke in Italian. The guests seemed to have all left, and Callie felt so strange, being the only one still checked into the hotel. As though she were trespassing. And she had the feeling Emilia thought of her that way. But she wasn't going to leave yet.

Emilia came into the sunroom. " Buon giorno ," she said. She sounded tough, but once again Callie could see that vulnerability. As if she wanted to connect, too, but didn't know how.

"You want to cook with me?" she said.

"What?" Callie said.

"Cook! Learn to cook," Emilia repeated.

Callie nodded. "It's…why I came."

"You missed the class. You came late. I only give a few classes these days."

"I know. I messed up. I had some problems at home, and I was delayed. I'm very sorry." She paused. "I really wanted to meet you."

"I will cook something with you today," she said. "I have a dinner guest. I will teach you if you want to help me. It's up to you. But we start now."

"Now?" she asked.

Emilia nodded.

Callie thought for a moment. It was so sudden, and she had barely touched her breakfast. But…

"Okay," she said, standing. She picked up her breakfast dishes. "Okay, now."

"Into the kitchen," Emilia said and led the way. Callie followed behind.

They went through the swinging doors. The kitchen was old and reminded her of the kitchen in her childhood house before Joe's mother remodeled it as a wedding present for Joe and Pam. The stove was large and squat, and the bulky refrigerator had rounded corners and horizontal, latch-type handles. There was no dishwasher. The floor and countertops were linoleum.

On the window were café curtains with yellow sunflowers. They were just like the curtains her grandmother had put on the windows back when she was young. Nonna would wash them every week and iron them tenderly. Callie pushed those thoughts from her mind, as Emilia handed her an apron off a hook on the wall, a white cloth covered in pink roses with bright-green leaves. Callie put her breakfast dishes into the sink and tied the apron around her waist.

Emilia moved to the countertop and began working with precision, lining up ingredients on the table: a large bowl of eggs, a canister of flour, a smaller bowl of lemons, a pitcher of cream, a plate of what looked to be breadcrumbs, a carafe of oil, a ceramic bowl covered with a dishtowel—Callie didn't know what it was covering—and glass cups of what looked like salt and spices. Emilia bent down to open a cabinet and pulled out a cast-iron Dutch oven and three sauté pans of different sizes and put them on the top of the stove. She went to the refrigerator and took out a pitcher with some clear liquid, which she poured into the pot. She adjusted the flame under the pot and then turned to Callie.

"We are making coda alla vaccinara ," she said. "Do you know what that is?"

Callie shook her head.

"Braised oxtail stew."

Callie caught her breath. It didn't sound like anything she'd like to eat. Which probably didn't matter, because she hadn't been invited for dinner. It also didn't sound like anything she'd like to prepare. But that didn't matter either.

"Sounds delicious," she forced herself to say.

"And pasta al limone ," she added. "Pasta with lemon."

Callie smiled. That sounded better.

"You can begin with the pasta," Emilia said. "Here, you work at the table. Measure about six cups of flour into the large bowl. Then make a cratere …what do you call it? A dip, a hole…a well, that's the word, right?"

Callie nodded.

"Yes, you make a well in the middle. Then you will crack an egg, the whole thing into the well…" She turned and looked at Callie. "What is it? What upsets you?"

Callie shook her head. She hadn't even realized that she was appearing a little emotional. "No, nothing, nothing. It's just…this reminds me of the kitchen in my house when I was little. This whole place looks just like it. It's so funny. The style of table, the chairs, the place mats you have…even the curtains on the windows. It was my grandmother's kitchen. She loved yellow. She loved sunflowers."

"Your grandmother was a cook?"

"Not professional. But yes…she was a wonderful cook. She loved it. I think cooking reminded her of when she was young. She was Italian, you know. She left Italy with my grandfather when she was maybe twenty, twenty-one. She took care of us, my sister and me, when we were little. I miss them so much."

"You had no parents?" Emilia asked.

Callie shook her head. "They died when I was very young. My grandparents moved into the house to take care of us."

"Here. Sit," Emilia said. Callie was surprised at how tender she was, how gentle, as she put her arm around Callie's waist and led her to a chair. "I lost my parents when I was very young, too," she said. "My mother when I was a baby. My father when I was a girl. Fifteen years old only."

"I'm sorry," Callie said. "Who took care of you?" She knew she was taking a risk asking Emilia such forward questions. She didn't want to push her. And yet she could feel Emilia was ready to open up a little. It was just as Oliver had said, that people loved Emilia when they got to know her. Callie was certainly leaning in that direction. Still, she wondered why Emilia was softening toward her. Was it because she also felt the kinship that Callie felt? That they were both alike, having lost parents, having lost so much so young?

"A woman who lived in our town," Emilia answered. "She was very kind. It was dangerous, you know. Because it was during the war. And my father was Jewish. It could have been very dangerous for her, having the daughter of a Jew in her home. But she was brave.

"So, your grandparents were from Italy," she said, changing the subject so abruptly that it took a moment for Callie to catch up. "Where in Italy?"

Callie hesitated, not sure if she was ready to admit who her grandmother was. "Well…I know they lived in this area for a time. And I know they also lived in Rome. That's where they met. My grandmother was a student there for a short time during the war."

"And who took care of you when your grandparents died?"

Callie paused again, this time remembering that she was pretending to be Pam. "I was twenty-two then. It was my sister, my little sister, who was young. Only twelve. I raised her at that point. I was like a parent."

"Until you were…how old?"

"I never left. She left. For college, when she was eighteen. And she never lived at home again after that."

"And you never left for college?"

"No, I stayed home for college. I went part-time. So I could take care of her."

"You were a good sister," Emilia said. "You stayed because she needed you. You gave up much to be her parent all that time, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," Callie said. She'd never really thought about what Pam might have given up to take care of her. She always thought Pam was living exactly the life she wanted.

"And now you have a daughter? You live in the town where you grew up?"

"Um…" Callie paused, thrown by the mention of Chloe. It was so strange, to pretend to be a mother. "Yes, I do live in the same town. In the same house, actually."

"That is nice. I live in my childhood house, too, you know," she said, pointing toward the floor.

"Oh?" Callie tried to sound surprised. She didn't want Emilia to know she and Oliver had been talking about her last night, that he'd explained how Emilia had returned home years ago and rebuilt the whole town. She didn't know if Emilia would appreciate that.

"Yes. I made it into a hotel. The small bakery in the front? My father was a tailor, that's where he did most of his work. It is nice, that your baby will grow up where you did. You will share memories of good food and love. That is a nice thing you are doing for her, your baby. She will appreciate it one day. You are a giving person."

"I…I try to be."

"And your younger sister? Is she a giving person?"

"Yes," Callie said. "Well, she tries to be."

"She lives in the same town too?"

Callie breathed in. Her only choice was to keep pretending. "No, she lives in Philadelphia. Do you know it? It's not too far. About a two-hour drive from New York."

"What is her name, your sister?"

"Callie. It's Callie."

"She didn't like your town?"

"She…" She paused. It was so strange, to be talking about herself as though she were someone else. "Callie's not the type to stay in one place," she said. "She likes to meet new people, go to new places. She was living in New York City, and then she quit her job and moved to Philadelphia."

"Maybe she is running away from something," Emilia said. "I was like that, too. Wanting to put my young life behind me after I'd left. So much heartache, so much pain. I lived all over Europe. London, Vienna, Marseilles for a time, Geneva, Amsterdam. I never wanted to stay put. Until one day I realized that running, it doesn't…"

She tapped her temple with her fingertips. "It doesn't free you from what is inside you. That's why I came back. It was better to be here, to stay here, than to always be running away."

Callie breathed in. "Well, I think Callie…she does have things that she wants to escape from. But she also…she's trying to straighten herself out. She loves to travel. She didn't want to stay put in one place all her life. Some people, you know…some people are like that. There's nothing wrong with it. We're all different."

"No, of course nothing wrong," Emilia said. "As long as she knows who she is. And understands that she doesn't have to reject her home to find somewhere else that touches…here." She tapped her chest.

"People who don't know what home is," she added. "They spend their lives searching and never get where they want to go. Ahhh, anyway, time to start. Make the dip, the hole," she said. "And crack three eggs into it."

Callie did as she was told, and Emilia picked up a fork. "You stir the eggs with one hand and push the flour in with the other, see?" she said, demonstrating. "Now, you." Callie did as Emilia had shown her, moving the flour into the eggs with the fingers of one hand as she used the fork in her other hand to keep beating. She'd never touched a raw egg before, at least not intentionally.

"Push," Emilia commanded. "Push it. Pasta isn't a timid dish. It demands a firm hand. Now you let go of the fork and keep pushing."

Callie nodded, jerked her hair away from her face, and dug into the well with both hands. She felt the ingredients start to combine to create dough. It was actually kind of pleasing. She pushed and pulled, enjoying the way the dough seemed to spring back against her hands.

"You knead until it feels smooth and not sticky," Emilia said. "Then roll it into a ball, and we leave it to rest."

Callie loved following Emilia's directions. She loved the expression on Emilia's face, the soft smile that lit up her eyes, the approving nod. That's what Oliver had said, that Emilia had a way of speaking that made you want to go along with her. She was direct and firm, but not nasty or bossy. Callie felt safe, following Emilia's instructions. She loved her confidence and her certainty, clearly obtained from years of experience and expertise. She couldn't help wishing she could have the same effect on someone someday. How did it feel to be so sure that what you had your hands on was exactly right? What was it like to make people feel confident just by being in your presence?

Callie continued on a few more moments, pressing her fingers into the dough, applying lots of pressure and being firm, as Emilia had told her to do. Then she looked up. Emilia was watching her, an expression on her wrinkled face that was somewhere between gentle and bemused.

"What?" Callie said. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing wrong," Emilia said. "It's just…you make me remember learning to cook."

"You mean there was a time when you were as much of a beginner as I am?"

"Of course," she said. "Everyone starts off as a beginner. I was much younger than you. A child, really. But it was right here."

"Here? In this kitchen?"

Emilia shook her head. "No, not exactly. It was a house down the street. The home of the woman who took me in when my father died and my sisters abandoned me."

"They abandoned…" Callie started, then stopped herself. She didn't want to further invade Emilia's privacy, and she was scared that if she pushed her at all, Emilia might shut down. She seemed that volatile. And yet Callie also admired that she was so curt, so direct about her sisters. That she saw things so clearly, so black and white. If someone were to ask Callie to describe her relationship with Pam, she feared she could talk for hours and still not truly give a clear impression.

"That woman—she was so generous," Emilia said. "She taught me to cook. We cooked for other families. Oh, there were so many shortages then. But she made delicious food from nothing. She would go out every morning and barter and trade, sometimes to buy goods. What they call the black market. She sold her own jewelry, Signora Jorelini. What a generous woman."

"Signora Jorelini?" Callie said. She recognized the name from last night. "Wait, didn't I see a memorial to her? In that square, Memorial Square? Wasn't she?—"

"What are you stopping for?" Emilia scolded. "Keep kneading!"

"I'm sorry," Callie said and started kneading again.

"It's the worst thing you can do, leaving someone you love behind," Emilia said, evidently back to talking about her sisters. "Someone who loves you. You remember that, you hear me? You never leave your little sister in the cold. You make sure that you do what she needs. That you are there for her. That's how you show you love her."

Callie nodded, keeping her head down. She couldn't help but relate to Emilia again. Because of how often she'd been left behind. By her parents, her grandparents, and Pam. It wasn't their fault that they'd died. But it felt like being abandoned. She wondered now about Emilia. Had her sisters actually abandoned her? Or was it just that they'd died? And did she blame them for that?

"I will," she said. "I'm always there for Callie. And I know she'll always be there for me.

"As much as she can, anyway," she added softly.

When Callie had formed the dough into a ball, Emilia nodded approvingly and picked it up. She put it into a deep bowl and covered it with the lid of a pot. "Come here," Emilia said and motioned Callie over to the other side of the table. She handed her a fat, oval lemon and a little metal tool with a line of small circles at the tip. "Here," she said and scraped the outside of the lemon. Small curlicues of peel rained down onto a cutting board.

"You try," she said. Callie took the tool and began scraping the lemon. The peel was thick as a callus, but the curlicues were delicate, like thin stalks of a flower or ribbon when you run the blade of a pair of scissors along it. The smell was wonderful, tangy and sweet at the same time. When she'd finished, Emilia motioned her over to the stove.

"Now we start the stew," she said. From the countertop, she untied the string of a package wrapped in brown paper. Inside were round chunks of meat. Emboldened by her work so far, Callie picked up one chunk and examined it. Each chunk had a round piece of bone in the center and slim white strips of something—muscle? cartilage?—emanating outward, like spokes of a wheel. Emilia sprinkled a generous amount of salt on the chunks and then doused them in ground pepper. She poured olive oil from a decanter into a cast-iron pot on the stove, and when the oil had heated, she arranged the chunks inside. Soon they began to sizzle, the sound almost tuneful.

Callie watched the chunks brown, as Emilia rotated them with a pair of tongs. The smell was rich and earthy.

"So, tell me more," Emilia said.

"About my sister?" Callie asked. "Let me think. Oh, I know—the bakery in the front of the lobby—Pasticceria Sancino? Where your father had his tailor shop? It reminds me so much of my childhood. There was a snowstorm in our town one year, almost two feet of snow. There was a power outage on our block, and cars couldn't get through at all. My sister, Callie—she was only six. And we walked together, my sister and I, we walked in the snow all the way into town. We stopped at this wonderful Italian bakery, and we bought pignoli cookies and cannolis and custard-filled donuts. My grandmother loved that bakery, too. She said her mother would make desserts like that when she was little, but they didn't have enough flour and sugar for such treats during the war. Anyway, that was my favorite memory with my sister, when we came home with all those goodies and sat on the rug and covered ourselves with blankets, and split them up and tried everything.

"There was… a lot of sadness that came the next day," she added. "I often wish that night never had to end."

"You are lucky, for the good memories," Emilia said, as she began to remove the browned meat and put it on a plate. "And you are close, still? Even though she moved away?"

Callie hesitated. It was getting harder to talk about Pam. "Not so much lately, I'm afraid…"

Emilia put the tongs down and looked at her. "Don't you get so involved with your own life that you forget your little sister. Be the sister still who walked with her to that bakery. Do you understand?"

Emilia seemed to be accusing her of something. Something that pained her, something she couldn't let go of.

Callie looked directly at the woman. "Emilia," she said. "I don't know what happened to you and your family. But your sisters, in that picture on the desk in the lobby, all dressed up…"

"That was the summer we went to Parissi Island?—"

"They look like they love you. And you love them. And the other picture," she added, thinking of the one with her grandmother. "You and she have your arms wrapped around each other, like you love each other, too?—"

Emilia walked back to the table and began chopping the celery stalks. "That's it, the lesson is over," she said. "Enough cooking. You must go."

"But…I wanted to help. I'm sorry if I said something wrong?—"

"We are done here," she said. "I will finish myself."

"Can't I even help clean up?"

"No. You must go. I need to work quickly. Supper club is tonight."

Callie remembered the menu card upstairs. "Supper club?"

"People will be waiting. That's all."

Callie watched her for a moment, her attention laser-focused on her chopping. Slowly, Callie removed her apron, draped it over a chair, and walked out of the kitchen—the room she had considered so warm, so welcoming, just a few minutes ago.

She walked through the dining room, where Renata was putting the breakfast leftovers onto a tray. "You are finished cooking already?" Renata asked.

"No, she's still there working on it," Callie said. She was too embarrassed to say that she'd been kicked out. "She's making a lot of food. Is there another dinner party?"

"Dinner party? No, no," Renata said, chuckling. "Other than students, Emilia never feeds guests here. No, she cooks three times a week for the church in Terrasina. They give it to people in their area who need a meal. She calls it her supper club. And the sweets in the bakery"—she gestured toward the little shop in the lobby—"those go to the church, too, for the children."

"So nobody buys anything from the bakery?"

Renata shook her head. "Emilia doesn't sell what she makes. She prefers to give it away to people."

She carried the tray of breakfast leftovers into the kitchen, leaving Callie to contemplate this news. Callie couldn't help but wonder whether all of Emilia's efforts—the rebuilding of the town, the memorial to the Jorelini mother and daughter, the cooking school and now the meals and treats for the church—were some kind of attempt to make up for something. To be forgiven.

She wished she could know what Emilia felt guilty for.

But now that Emilia was mad at her, there seemed even less chance that she'd be able to find out.