Delicious! (23 page)

He’d remembered my words!

“In the meantime, though, I need a care package to get me through the next two months. Nothing tastes like Fontanari’s.”

Parmigiano, pecorino, prosciutto—he wanted it all. I was starting to pack up the order when he stopped me. “And, Wilhelmina, I think I’d better have three balls of mozzarella.”

“The real thing?”

“Of course I want the real thing!” I was reaching for the imported mozzarella di bufala when he stopped me. “Why would I want week-old Italian stuff when I could have the cheese Rosalie made this morning? Don’t you know anything?”

I stared at him incredulously. “That”—I scooped the cheese out of the vat—“is going to make Rosalie’s day.”

“Please tell her I wish her a very happy birthday.”

“I’ll do that.” He turned to go and then hesitated, searching the shelves as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then I realized he was doing what he always did with Sal: trying to delay his departure. When he got to the door, I screwed up my courage and called after him, “Don’t you be a stranger.”

Sal wasn’t the only one who’d missed him.

SAL AND ROSALIE RETURNED
with pink cheeks, and as Rosalie pulled out her phone to show me how Richard had made a tablecloth of bay
leaves, covering the entire table with them, Sal demanded a blow-by-blow account from Theresa.

When she got to Mr. Complainer, he groaned. “Wouldn’t you know it? The first time I leave, the guy decides to show up. Just like him. Is he coming back?”

“Ask Willie,” Theresa replied, wiggling her hips a little. “They had quite the conversation.”

Rosalie snapped her phone shut. “Was that woman with him?”

“No. And he wanted
your
mozzarella.”

Sal took off his cap, then put it back on, settling it more comfortably on his head. “He bought Rosie’s mozzarella?” He put his arm around his wife. “Now we’ve surely lost him for good.”

“For a while, anyway,” I said. “A couple of months. He’s teaching somewhere out of town.”

“Away from the city? Poor guy!” Sal could not believe anyone would voluntarily leave New York. “Wonder what he teaches that could make him stay away so long.”

“You don’t know?” I was surprised.

“It never came up.” Sal drew himself up. “We stick to what’s important.”

Rosalie glanced toward the door, as if the phantom Mr. Complainer might still be standing there. “Two months is a long time. Come to dinner tonight, okay?”

“ROSALIE COOKED HER OWN
birthday dinner,” I told Sammy the next morning. “And it was great. Of course. She made Jewish artichokes—which were so crisp they crackled when you put them in your mouth—lasagna, porchetta, and a puntarelle salad. Her oldest nephew was there, and she made him sit next to me. He took one look, bolted his food, and then bolted toward the door.”

Sammy laughed.

“I wish she’d stop matchmaking. I don’t want a boyfriend!”

“Of course not.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Why would you desire romance? Your life is replete exactly as it is.”

“Your point is taken,” I said. “But here’s the thing: He was giving his lame excuses, and Rosalie said, ‘I made ice cream!’ as if that could keep him there, and the creep actually asked if he could take it to go. She gave a defeated little shrug and began to pack it up. I suddenly thought about Lulu’s father coming down the steps of the plane, ice cream under his arm, saying, ‘Cheated death again.’ ”

“I am persuaded that there is a reason you feel compelled to share this with me.”

“The first sentence of Lulu’s last letter was ‘Father has been found!’ Maybe that’s the clue.”

“What is the clue?”

“Father!”

“We should look in the catalog for ‘father’?”

“No, not ‘father.’ ” In my excitement I could barely talk. “Father is a Swan. I’ll bet anything the next clue is ‘Swan.’ ”

A smile was spreading across Sammy’s face. “That is precisely the sort of clue Bertie would relish.”

We ran up the stairs and pulled open the “S” drawer with an enormous sense of anticipation. Sammy riffled through the cards.

“Just one? And it’s red?” My face must have been comical.

“Surely there must be another answer.” Sammy sounded glum. “Bend your mind to this. Is there an alternate word for swan?”

I thought for a moment. Then I had it. “Father’s a Swan, but Lulu’s not.”

Sammy looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

“She’s a young Swan.”

“The ugly duckling!” Sammy immediately got my point. “What an extremely sharp-witted young woman you are!” He went to the “D” file and triumphantly pulled up a blue card. “Wild game was much prized as a source of meat during wartime rationing. Among the reader letters
of 1944 you will find some fascinating advice on the care of young ducklings from the inimitable James Beard.”

Our race to the secret room—Anzio, as Sammy had begun to call it—sent books tumbling to the floor. I went right to the 1944 shelf and searched through the folders, looking for “Ducklings.” The file was very fat. “There must be a lot of letters here!” Excited now, I pulled it off the shelf and sat next to Sammy on the floor.

“Is something the matter?” Sammy’s voice was alarmed. I could feel him hesitating. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept coming, and for a long time neither of us moved. He handed me the big white linen handkerchief he always carries and patted my back. My throat was raw and my shirt was soaked, but I just kept crying.

Finally I lifted my head and looked at Sammy. “Dare I conjecture,” he was speaking slowly, “that you have not plummeted into this slough of despond merely because of Lulu?” He swallowed hard. “Is it your sister?”

I could feel myself go soft inside, could feel the words filling my mouth, eager to come out. Sammy slid over and wrapped his arms around me. He put his lips to my ear; his breath was warm as he whispered, “Tell me. Tell me.”

W
HERE TO BEGIN? I CLOSED MY EYES AND TOOK MYSELF BACK
. And then I told Sammy my story. All of it.

THE YEAR I WAS TEN
, Dad’s birthday fell on a Saturday. The three of us got up late and had our weekly pancake contest, seeing who could flip one the highest. As usual, it turned the pristine kitchen into an enormous mess. But today Dad looked at the batter-covered counters with the dirty pans and sticky plates and said, “Forget the dishes; it’s my birthday. We’re going to the beach.”

It felt like a holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, and I skipped up the stairs to get my bathing suit. Genie followed more slowly. “It’s embarrassing”—she pulled the towels reluctantly off the rack—“going to the beach with your father.” She was almost twelve.

It was a hot, clear day, and Genie stretched out on the sand while Dad and I went bodysurfing. The water was soft against our skin, and Dad waved at Genie, urging her to join us. But she had her sketch pad out. Dad squinted slightly, his wet hair black and seal-like in the water, looking back at her. “She looks more like your mother every day.” I followed his gaze; from here Genie could have been a woman, her bikini stretched taut across her hips, her legs long and golden against the white sand.

“Was Mom that beautiful?” In the old pictures you couldn’t tell, and
I had no memory of Mom. People said how sad that was, but I had Dad and Aunt Melba. And I had Genie.

“She was.” Dad splashed toward me. He studied my pale skin, brown eyes, and straight hair as if seeing me for the first time. He outlined my face, his fingers gentle on my cheeks. I dove into a wave; when I surfaced, he was still looking at the place where I’d gone down. “I know you won’t believe this,” he said, “but one day you’re going to be beautiful too. More beautiful than Genie.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but nobody’s more beautiful than Genie.” Why would he say something so absurd? I dove down again, opening my eyes to find a school of jellyfish floating through the murky underwater greenness. From a cautious distance I watched them suspended in the water like delicate parachutes, thinking that beauty was only part of it. Genie was good at everything and so outgoing that our teachers never could believe we were related. I surfaced and looked over at the beach. Genie was lying on the sand, her eyes shut now.

We went home sun-drunk and drowsy, trailing sand through the hall and up the stairs. I went off to shower, and as I toweled myself dry I stared into the mirror, trying to see myself as Dad did. I wanted to believe him, but a sturdy ten-year-old in glasses was looking back at me. Boring. Ordinary. She had no waist, no hips, and hair so short she might have been a boy. I put on a white cotton dress and slipped into sandals. In the next room Genie was singing a Randy Newman song, and the lyrics drifted toward me: “Got some whiskey from the barman, Got some cocaine from a friend, I just had to keep on movin’, Till I was back in your arms again.” She had a nice voice, and I hummed along as I waited for Aunt Melba to signal us that she was ready.

When she called, Genie ran down the hall to Dad’s room. “Quick!” she said. “Aunt Melba’s oven’s on fire. We have to go help!” Still pulling a shirt over his head, Dad raced down the stairs, with Genie and me sneaking quietly behind him. When he disappeared behind the hedge next door, we heard thirty people shout, “Surprise!” We squeezed through just in time to see the little tremor of shock run up his back.