Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
She’s been hurt and alone before. Like me.
When I give her a curious look she only smiles sadly. “My husband Santo was not my first husband.”
Oh.
Rosa squeezes my hand as she leaves and Marialena gives me a curious look. “You want a tour of the club?”
Of course I do, I really do. I want to know what kind of club a man like Sergio runs. But I promised him I wouldn’t.
“I can’t,” I tell her, as sad as a child who just had to turn down an invitation to a birthday party.
I jump at the sound of a vibration that comes from her pocket. She pulls out a slender cell phone and glances at it before she breaks into a grin. “Oh, hi, honey! Ooooh, such good news! Yes! I’m in town at the new place. Had to run an errand for Serge.” She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. “No, I’m not hanging out here, I was just doing him a favor. No. No! You’re landing? Ohh, you’re with Santo?” She squeals. “I’ll be right there, honey, wait for meeee!”
Quickly hanging up her phone she gives me a grin. “My husband’s come home early, and I need to catch a ride with Rosa. I’ll see you again soon, Eden.” She leans in and gives me a quick hug, whispering in my ear, “I don’t know your story, but I can already tell you’re brave and we’re going to be such good friends. Don’t let my cousin give you any shit.”
She kisses my cheek, engulfing me in a billow of perfume, and runs from the room.
I’m alone.
I stare at myself in the mirror again, surprised to see there’s a tear on my cheek. Will she be my friend? Other than my sister, I’ve never had a friend before.
From what I see reflected back at me, the clothes suit me well. They’re form-fitting and attractive but don’t show much of my skin. It’s unnerving how perfectly they fit me and how suddenly modern I look.
I give myself a little shake and head back to the kitchen.
I have a job to do.
When I arrive, I’m all alone. Sergio’s gone. At first, I’m disappointed. I like being around him for some strange reason, but he’s dangerous for me. I can’t trust myself around him.
I’m married – separated? – and he’s from another world.
But then I see a note on the counter, handwritten in firm, slanted print.
Eden,
We’re hosting a dinner party for twenty. Show me what you’ve got, and we’ll talk about your salary. You may use anything we have in the kitchen, and I’ll send someone to pick up anything you need. I have work to do but I’ll be back later.
Remember what I told you.
-Sergio
My heart does another little flip when I read his handwritten admonition. Twenty people, totally doable. For some reason I thought he had a much bigger party than that planned.
I want to knock his socks off.
I have no idea where else I could possibly go where I could get a job without having “papers,” as he called them, so I’m going to wow him.
I do a thorough inventory, my heart racing as I take in every detail. I inhale the invigorating scent of fresh herbs and aged cheeses, marveling at the wonders before me. The pantry’s impressive. Jars of roasted peppers with onion and garlic, artisanal salamis and cured hams. Cans of tomatoes and cannellini beans, bottles of wine, capers and olives, and a full array of olive oils. Thanks to his friends—or is it cousins?—there are papers wrapped around freshly baked breads, trays of fresh pasta, and plump, homemade sausages.
I make the menu with a flourish, making good use of the pantry items.
Back home—no. No, I won’t think of it as home. I left that place and it was never a home to me.
Back where I came from, we ate simple, inexpensive foods. I learned how to cook basic Italian fare from one in our fellowship, but dishes like these were better reserved for holidays or celebrations. Here, I can cook and serve anything I want.
I begin by starting a simple pasta sauce. I chop onions and roast garlic, pinch bits of fresh herbs from bundles and prepare chicken and sausage. I hum to myself as I flit from one thing to the next. The bread dough’s rising and the sampling of pasta I made floats to the surface of the water. I taste it. It melts in my mouth.
By the time it’s lunchtime, I’ve got the first batch of breadsticks baking in the oven, peeled potatoes sitting in a water bath, and I’m whisking eggs and sugar together to make a sponge cake.
I’m hyper-focused on nothing but cooking the best food he’s ever put in his mouth.
I haven’t thought about where I came from.