The Love Goddess' Cooking School (5 page)

Everyone was sorry and Holly had had nowhere to be.

Her grandmother had known she was dying, which was why she’d asked Holly to come in September. To be comforted by her granddaughter before she died. And to be there.

Camilla Constantina wasn’t truly psychic; 30 percent of the time, in Camilla’s own estimation, she was wrong, but usually involving things that were asked of her—“Will I get married?” (Pamela Frumm, who managed Blue Crab Island Books, was forty-two and still hadn’t found her guy after her grandmother had told her for ten years that “Yes, of course you will.” But sometimes Holly would wonder if her grandmother was just being kind. Why say no? What would that have done to Pamela Frumm, who could often be seen in high heels and lipstick and awaiting her Match.com date, who
could
be the one?) And her grandmother had been sure that her great-aunt Giada’s cancer would take her around Christmastime, and two years later, she was still waking up at five every morning to roll out pasta for her son’s restaurant in Milan.

But 70 percent of the time, Camilla was right. Whether about the Red Sox or someone’s true love or a tornado. Holly
had often wondered if it was more difficult to know than not to know.

She got out of bed, walked over to the dresser, and opened the top drawer, where she knew she’d find her grandmother’s diaries, a stack of four black-and-white composition notebooks that she wrote in English. She took them out and put them on the dresser, stopping to open one of the bottles of perfume and drawing out the stick, rubbing just a bit on her wrist, the smell of her grandmother’s favorite perfume as soothing as her hugs.

Holly had found the diaries the day of her grandmother’s funeral, when she’d come upstairs to get away from her mother, tsk-tsking Holly for refusing to sell the house, and her father, stuffing his face with plate after plate of buffalo wings, a kitchen full of food that her grandmother would never have touched, delivered by neighbors she’d done so much for. Holly hadn’t felt right reading her grandmother’s diaries, wasn’t sure she should or even wanted to, but now that Camilla’s life was hers, Holly hoped to find a secret or two hidden in the pages, something to make this new life feel more like hers—and something that would help her understand her own mother, from whom Holly was pulling further and further away. Her mother had lost her own mother, and though Holly had seen her crying at the funeral, her tears seemed less about her grief than about something else—the unbridgeable gulf between them, Holly thought. Luciana Maguire rarely talked about growing up on Blue Crab Island, except to say she’d been miserable there from her first memory.

Holly had a feeling that if her grandmother hadn’t wanted
her to read the diaries, they would not be front and center in the top drawer of her dresser when she clearly knew she was dying. She took the top notebook, with her grandmother’s beautiful handwriting, declaring:
This notebook belongs to Camilla Constantina.
She lay back in bed and opened the first notebook.

August 1962

Dear Diary,

A few days ago I tacked the ad (LEARN TO COOK ITALIAN FOOD) in the large space between Annette Peterman’s call for a babysitter (the poor infant is colicky and no one responded to the ad, according to the proprietor, despite Annette’s willingness to pay three dollars an hour) and a black and white signed glossy photograph of President Kennedy. The bulletin board in the general store is also Blue Crab Island’s suggestion box and complaint bureau. Please lower your car radios when driving along Blue Crab Boulevard was one complaint. Someone is not picking up after their dog on Shelter Road was another. The poster of Kennedy is reassuring. Armando loved him, the first Catholic president of our new country. “You see,” he said, “we belong.
”

But now he’s gone. A full year has passed since Armando died from a heart attack while pulling weeds from the garden. The grief counselor in Portland suggested I start a diary to help me get out my feelings, especially because I have so few people to talk to now. I was not interested in writing about my grief, but oddly enough, today, the very day I begin what feels like my third life (the first being Italy, the second with Armando in America, and the third as a widow with a child to raise), I bought this notebook from the general store here on Blue Crab Island. It’s amazing that just one month ago I woke with the notion to go to Blue Crab Island, where Armando and I rode bicycles along the bay one fine summer day. The feeling was so strong and I knew I was meant to go, meant to take Luciana, who is now five, to the Island, where there are no blue crabs, and there was the bungalow, this two-story apricot-colored gingerbread cottage at the far end of the main road, nestled against evergreens. I knew instantly it was meant to be our house. It’s small, just two bedrooms, and a bit run-down, but the kitchen is the biggest room in the house, and there’s a small backyard where I can grow herbs and vegetables.

The moment I drove over the long bridge that connects Portland to Blue Crab Island, I felt my knowing come back. This past year without Armando, I woke up each morning with nothing more in my head, my heart, my bones, than what even my dear Luciana could plainly see: that I was grief-stricken. But we have been five years in America, in Portland, and I will be fine. That I know even without the help of my comfort stones. It was time to take Luciana out of that house of loss and into a house of beginning. Now, just one month later, the rooms are painted the cool shades of the Mediterranean, the kitchen is stocked and ready. And I am ready to give this newfangled idea a try, teaching a class in Italian cooking. I have a decent amount of money tucked away, but I want to try to earn my own living, to show Luciana that a woman can be enterprising.

Today I had my first class. Four students. Four surprising students. They are the fancy women of Blue Crab Island: Lenora Windemere, whose great-great-grandfather bought Blue Crab Island in the late 1800s, and who owns the general store, and her friends. When I tacked up that ad, I didn’t know who, if anyone, would take my class; I consulted the stones and was overcome with peace, which meant offering the course was the right thing to do, but I had no idea in what way.

My students arrived together earlier today, a glorious spring day, these women who’d stopped by the day I bought the run-down bungalow at the edge of Blue Crab Boulevard (as if a paved road on the town’s main street were a boulevard). “What country are you from?” they wanted to know. “What happened to your husband? Does your daughter speak English? Do you always wear dresses to clean
?”

I’ve always felt their stares as I walked from the bungalow, Luciana in hand, to the general store for provisions. The store does not have everything, but over the past five years, I know which butchers and markets in Portland have vegetables and fish and meats that rival the markets back home. They don’t like me, these women, because I am Italian and speak English with a heavy accent. Because I do wear pretty dresses every day, even to clean. Because one of their husbands, I have no idea who, said right in the middle of the coffee shop, which serves terrible coffee that I will never get used to, “Do you know who you look like? Sophia Loren.
”

I suppose I do look somewhat like Sophia Loren, except that my hair and eyes are almost black. I have the hairstyle, the figure, the accent. Another reason I am not liked by the women of Blue Crab Island.

So I was surprised when promptly at noon on a Thursday, these four prominent women turned up at the door with their ten-dollar bills. They walked in one at a time, in order of their rank, I understood instantly. First was Lenora Windemere, with her shellacked blond beehive, cream-colored mohair sweater, and tight peach pedal pushers. Annette Peterman was next, also blond, also in pedal pushers, who would have been very attractive were it not for the dark circles and fatigue etched on her face. From the colicky baby, I assume. Jacqueline Thibodeux, PTA president, councilman’s wife, with her auburn curls and fine features, looked like a porcelain doll. And Nancy Waggoner, who rarely spoke and only agreed with whatever the other three said.

“
Welcome to Camilla’s Cucinotta!” I said with my practiced big smile. “I am prepared to teach you the secrets of Italian cooking.” I reached for the aprons I bought for the class and held them out.

“
No rush, is there?” Lenora said, not taking an apron, so of course the other three put their hands back down. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? I don’t recognize it, and I’m always trying new fragrances. Is it from Italy
?”

“
Actually, I made it myself, from mixing oils,” I told her. “I can make some for you for the next class.
”

She stared at me. “How nice. It’s interesting how you extend your eyeliner on your top lashes but don’t use any at all on your lower lashes. Why is that
?”

My eyeliner
?

“
Why don’t you wear pants?” they wanted to know. “Do you buy your bras around here? What brand of shampoo do you use? Do you use the regular type of hair curlers? Or is that a permanent
?”

What I quickly learned was that they wanted to learn my secrets without actually giving me the compliment. They wanted to study me up close, see how I wore my makeup and styled my hair and outfits so that it all enhanced rather than empowered. They are not interested in learning to cook; they already know how or think they do, anyway.

“
Okay, ladies, we’d better get started on the lesson,” I said to them. “Osso buco takes quite a while to prepare
—”

“
Ossco buco?” Annette interrupted. “That sounds kind of, what’s the word? Exotic. We’re interested in learning how to make Italian dishes the way they do in restaurants. You know, veal parmigiana. Lobster fra diavolo
.”

Veal parmigiana? Veal with cheese on top
?

I’d planned a typical three-course menu: a small plate of pasta to start, tagliatelle with a simple tomato sauce, the osso buco. And so I ignored Annette and began the lesson for a classic Italian dinner, the small plate of pasta, the osso buco, a salad, and fresh fruit for dessert.

“
I’m really interested in learning how to make veal parmigiana,” Annette said. “Lasagna too, but mainly veal parm. It’s my husband’s favorite meal, and I’m planning a huge party for his fortieth next weekend. Everyone’s invited, and
—”

At least she’d thought to stop herself. Everyone wasn’t invited.

“
Well, then,” I said. “I’ll teach you how to make a delicious veal parmigiana.” Veal I had, of course. And there was always Parmigiano-Reggiano in my refrigerator.

And so the women finally put on their aprons and gathered around the center island, learning how to season the veal, how to make the sauce, when to lay on the cheese.

But as Annette Peterman placed the cheese over the veal in the pan, I knew, quite suddenly, that her husband would not attend that party. There was only his absence that I felt. He was going to die. I had no idea in what manner or exactly when. I only knew he would not be at that party.

And so I sighed, my heart going out to Annette with the colicky baby, who talked about her husband nonstop. Bob says. Bob and I. I don’t like her—or the other three. But they were grudgingly here to learn my secrets and that made them vulnerable enough. And now I would know more about them, things that would make me care, make me worry. I knew what it was like for your husband to suddenly not be there.

And so I allowed these women I don’t like to teach me the American way of Italian food.

And I learned something. Quite a few things.

The entry finished, Holly wanted to keep reading, to find out what happened next, if Annette’s husband did die, if the women came back the following week, but she was so tired and her eyes were drifting shut. She took the three stones from the pouch on the bedside table and held them to her chest, shutting the lamp and glancing out at the crescent moon in the dark sky, her last thought of John and Lizzie making a surprise visit, John magically charmed by the idea of moving to Maine and taking up photography, Lizzie walking through the woods, picking blueberries. She pulled the comforter up to her chin, wondering what it was like to
know.

Four

Holly stretched in her grandmother’s bed—her bed, she reminded herself—the bright morning sun slanting through the white gauzy curtains. The stones had fallen on the braided round rug next to the bed, and Holly hoped that didn’t mean she’d broken something inside them. Not that they were of use to her. If there were magic in those stones, they worked only for Camilla Constantina.

She replaced the stones in their pretty white pouch, then got up and took a long shower, enjoying the scent of her grandmother’s seventies-popular shampoos, like Wella Balsam and Flex with its sticker price of $1.99. She dressed in jeans, a warm cream-colored sweater, and her trusty brown Frye Harness boots, then headed out to the Farmers Market in Portland with her shopping list—recipes that she needed to master for the first two classes. She had some money saved up of her own, not much, and combined with the four months to keep the house and business going, she needed to be careful with what she spent.

As she drove over the half-mile span of beautiful bridge that
connected the island to Portland’s harbor, she felt the same peace she always did at the glittering blue water, the boats docked along the shores where Holly could see cottages and mansions nestled among the evergreens. She parked in a harbor lot along Commercial Street, the seagulls swooping amid the boats and busy street.

Holly weaved her way to her favorite farmer’s market in an open area between two low buildings. The market was crowded with vendors and shoppers. She was becoming something of a regular here, and she liked that one of the vegetable vendors, who had an enormous tattoo of a snake on his bicep, knew her by sight enough to wave. She passed trucks unloading what looked like cabbage and moved past the huge baskets of colorful peppers and hovered by the bushels of onions, trying to remember what her grandmother had said about onions. Big was good? Small? Sweet? Yellow? There was so much to know, so much to hold in your head. She’d been here at least five times the past two weeks and she couldn’t remember what type of onion to buy. And basil—was she supposed to choose leaves that had flowered or not?