Lost in Rome (14 page)

I lifted the humongous pot to a burner and started the ritual of making sauce, on my own, for the first time. Even though we'd just made a batch, I wanted to try to do it myself.

I followed the directions the way I had memorized. Nothing was written down. And now I understood why. The oil bubbled, the garlic popped. Slowly I added the tomatoes a little at a time, stirring carefully with the very long silver spoon.

Going through the motions of mixing the steaming ingredients, with the rhythmic pounding in the background, allowed my thoughts to drift away in the steam floating from the pot. I wondered about:

1. AJ and Rico: Did I
like
like Rico or AJ? I thought the answer to this question was still “both.” And what was it about Rico that made me want to stare at him and try to figure out where I thought I'd seen him before?

2. Letters: What was I going to do with these letters? Throwing away others' wishes seemed wrong. But the pile was getting big.

3. My notes:
Where were they now?

The back door opened, followed by the familiar sound of “
Buongiorno!
” from the deliveryman named Salvatore. This guy seemed like he never had a bad day.

“Ah, you are making sauce,” he said. “Maria taught you her recipe?”

“Yeah, she did,” I said. “This is my first time flying solo.”

“Really?” He moved closer to the pot and studied the empty jugs. “Where do you get your crushed tomatoes?”

“Can't tell you,” I said. “It's a secret. You know that.”

“Ha-ha!” His belly jiggled. “Everyone knows that. Between the sauce and the matchmaking thing, you guys are getting all the pizza customers.”

“Yeah. I guess the matchmaking gets them in, and the sauce keeps them eating. A good combo,” I said. “We wouldn't want to let those secrets out.”

For the first time the perma-grin glued to Salvatore's face faded. The sudden change in his expression made the hairs on my neck stick up. Then, just as fast as it had disappeared, it returned, but this time it looked like he was forcing his face muscles to smile. It looked . . .
fake
.

Suddenly I didn't trust Salvatore.

The sauce—he was in the kitchen alone all the time.

The matchmaker notes—he'd delivered the menu sample near the register.

Did I make a terrible mistake?

I think I had.

Was I wrong about Lorenzo?

I think I had been.

“It was him,” I said to Rico and AJ as soon as they had both feet in the kitchen. “He took my notes and put them up for an online auction.”

“Not Lorenzo?” AJ asked.

“No,” I said.

“So we—” Rico started saying.

“Yup,” I said.

“And Lorenzo didn't—” AJ began.

“Nope,” I said.

“Not cool,” Rico said.

“Not at all,” I confirmed.

“And why was he following us around Rome?” AJ asked.

“Maybe he was really following Gianna to talk to her,” I suggested. “Like she thought.”

“And we spit cherry seeds at him,” Rico said. “Now I feel bad.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Why did Salvatore do it?” AJ asked.

“That is the one-million-pepperoni question,” I said. “And we're gonna get an answer.”

“How?” Rico asked.

“We're gonna go over there and ask. No more recon, no more acts of deception, no more stakeouts,” I said. “AJ, can you stir this sauce for me?”

“Really? The sauce?” AJ asked.

“Yeah. Look, you have to do it like this.” I showed him how to make big sweeping circles with the long silver spoon. “You can't stop.” I handed it to him. “Ever.”

“You're letting me use the spoon?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I trust you.”

He took the spoon and stirred it exactly like I had said.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

“You,” I said to Rico. “You come with me.”

I took Rico's hand and dragged him out the back door.

Did you get the part where I grabbed his hand?

I jumped on the back of his friend's Vespa, which Rico continued to borrow, and secured the helmet like a pro.

Rico took off with such speed that I had to grab him around the waist to keep myself from falling off. He zipped through the streets more aggressively than AJ had. I held on tight. He smelled good, like a familiar soap.

Again, I debated the question about which boy I
like
liked. Right now, it was Rico.

“We're going right in there and ask them why they're doing this to Amore Pizzeria.” I set my helmet on the back of the scooter and marched toward the door. “You coming?”

“Um—”

“Wimp,” I said.

He swung his leg off the scooter. “Wimp” did it.

I knocked on the back door of Pizzeria de Roma, hard.

Lorenzo opened it.

“I need to talk to you,” I said. I saw Salvatore and said to him, “And you.”

“Come in,” Lorenzo said.

The kitchen of Pizzeria de Roma was very different from Amore's. It was very big, bright, and filled with chefs with tall hats and shiny dishwashers. Every appliance shone and sparkled with newness.

“What's going on?” Lorenzo asked.

“That's my question.” I looked at Salvatore. “And I think
he
can answer it.”

“Uncle Sal?” Lorenzo asked.

Uncle Sal said nothing.

“He's been in Amore Pizzeria doing a little more than making deliveries, if you know what I mean. And I want to know why.”

“No,” Lorenzo said. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think he sabotaged our signature sauce with an insane, and potentially lethal, dose of red pepper. I tried it. I almost lost my tongue, literally. It almost fell right out of my mouth and onto the tile floor.”

Lorenzo stared at Salvatore and then at his grandfather, who was also in the kitchen. “Did you ask him to do that?”

“I know nothing about this,” Grandfather said. “What did you do, Salvatore?”

“I did what had to be done,” Salvatore said. “You are blinded by
amore
. And that is going to kill our business. We will be broke.”

“So, it is the truth?” Grandfather asked. “The sauce?”

Salvatore nodded. “First I look for the recipe for the sauce. But they no write it down. I look everywhere. It was the only thing keeping them open.”

“But why?” Grandfather asked.

“We no make enough money to cover all of this.” He pointed to the shining appliances. “With that sauce, people will eat more of our pizza.”

“I hate to break it to you, but your pizza has more problems than the sauce, if you know what I mean,” I said under my breath.

“The customers, they come once and no come back,” Salvatore said. “Then they start with the matchmaking and we have no customers. When I see the matching instructions at the register—”

“What did you do with the instructions?” Lorenzo asked.

“He's selling them online. To the highest bidder,” Rico said.

Lorenzo asked Uncle Sal, “So you were trying to put them out of business?”

“I have a lot of money invested in this place,” Salvatore said. “It's my retirement. And you, Mossimo, you don't know how to run a restaurant.”

Grandfather said, “Salvatore, I cannot believe what you have done.” To us, he said, “I am sorry. I would never want to hurt my dear Maria.”

“Your . . . ‘dear Maria'?” I asked slowly.

Everyone nodded.

“Yes,” Grandfather said. “It is a very old story.”

“Those are my favorite kind,” I said. “Lay it on me.” I hopped on the counter and made myself comfortable.

“It started when Maria and I were about your age.”

“What happened?” Rico moved toward the cappuccino machine, pushed a few buttons, and rested a small white cup under a spout. “Does anyone else want one?”

Everyone nodded.

“She was so beautiful. We fell in love. But then I went into the military. We kept in touch for a long time with the letters. One day she write me that she was marrying Ferdinando. I was heartbroken and didn't write to her again.”

Lorenzo helped Rico put tiny mugs into tiny saucers with tiny spoons and pass them around.

Grandfather continued his story as he stared at the wall. It was as if he was watching it play out on a movie screen and he was telling us what he saw.

“We lost the contact with each other. I thought I would never see her again. I married my dearest Nicolette. Loved her deeply. She died very young. After two broken hearts, I never looked for the love again. A few months ago I decide to take money that I won from a national bocce tournament and move to Rome.”

“He is very good at bocce,” Lorenzo added. “And dancing.”

Grandfather took a sip of espresso and continued, “I move here to Rome to be with my brother and his little restaurant. We make all the changes. Sal wanted a break from the cooking, so I take over and he start the deliveries. One day I visited the Fontana del Cuore. Like everyone, I toss in a coin. And that is when I saw her. At least I thought it was her. I could no be sure. It had been so many years. I followed her down a cobblestone alley to Amore Pizzeria, where she disappeared. I go in and order. When I try the pizza, I know the sauce. It was my Maria.”

“What did you do?” I asked. At the same time I thought about how I was going to write a story about this when I got home.

“I left. I no talk to her.”

He continued, “She is happily married and has a lovely life. I no want to interfere,” he said.

“You know,” I said, “Great-Uncle Ferdinando died three years ago.”

“What?!” Grandfather said. He set his small espresso cup down and glared at Salvatore. “You knew this?”

“I—er—um . . .”

“You are every day making the deliveries. You knew?”

“
Sì!
I knew! If I told you, you would never try to make this business work!” he yelled. “When you came back that day and told me you'd found your true love at Amore Pizzeria, I would not believe it. In all the piazzas in all of Italy, and she owns a pizzeria
here
! What are the chances?”

“Mamma mia!”
Grandfather smacked his forehead with his hand. “I cannot believe you no tell me, Salvatore.” Suddenly he lunged at his brother.

I jumped in between them. “Wait!”

Lorenzo tried to calm his grandfather, while Rico subdued Salvatore.

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Thank goodness,” Rico sighed.

“I can't wait to hear this,” Lorenzo said.

“By the way,” I said to Lorenzo, “I am so sorry about the itching thing.”

“That's okay,” he said. “It's not like you had anything to do with—”

I stared at the floor.

“You? You did that? Why? I was nice to you and Gianna. I liked her. I still like her.”

“I thought you had done it—the sauce, the notes.”

I expected him to yell and get angry. Instead he combed his fingers through his hair. “No. It wasn't me.”

His calmness made me feel worse, if that was even possible.

This story needed a much happier ending.

I banged the broom on the ceiling. Jane came in with a big board covered with fabric.

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's a pin board. I'm going to make crisscrosses with ribbon. Then I'll slide pictures or memorabilia under the ribbons and make like a collage type of thing,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“I do.” This gave me
another
idea. They were coming faster than I could handle now.

“Guys, we need to have a little meeting.”

I set myself at the head of a table for six. My sister and friends sat around me. Rico and I related the story about Aunt Maria and Grandfather Mossimo.