Lost in Rome (7 page)

The woman heard me. “Mess with love?” she asked.

“You see, I think maybe I can make love matches based on what pizza people order,” I explained. “No biggie. But I tried it on you and Angelo.”

“Not
maybe
. You can!” she squealed. “You're a
matchmaker
?
C'est fantastique!
” She held out her hand. “I am Murielle duPluie. I used to be quite a popular TV news reporter in Paris. Now I work for the Rome newspaper. All of Rome needs to know about this. I will come back tomorrow with a photographer.” She looked out into the open air and moved her hand along words that weren't there. “Pizzeria Matchmaker.”

Gianna and I stared at the imaginary letters.

“You may get famous,” Murielle duPluie said. “And Amore Pizzeria, too!” She skipped down the alley. I looked at it for a minute and imagined what it would look like lined with luminaries on either side.

“Wait,” Gianna called out after her, but Murielle duPluie had already lifted her cell phone to her ear. Gianna said to me, “That's not good.”

“It's not
good
; it's great! Maybe I am a”—I looked out into the open air and moved my hand along words that weren't there—“Pizzeria Matchmaker! Just think, people could get awesome food and meet the love of their life. What could be better?” Without waiting for an answer, I said, “If Amore Pizzeria is famous, it'll make lots of money and stay in business. That's the best thing we can do for Aunt Maria.”

“I don't know, Lucy. You know what Aunt Maria said. I don't think she'll go for it.”

“She wouldn't
if she knew
.”

“You're not gonna tell her?” Gianna asked. “I think she'll notice a reporter and photographer in her restaurant.”

“Not if we get her out for a few hours.”

“How are we gonna do that?” Gianna asked.

“I have an idea.”

Gianna grinned. “You always do.”

The next day, well rested and refreshed, Gianna and I walked from Aunt Maria's apartment to Amore Pizzeria.

“You think it'll work?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said. “When I give you the sign, you go for it. Until then, act totally normal.” I handed her the slip of paper she would need to get Aunt Maria out of the pizzeria for a few hours.

“Fine, but for the record, I don't like this.”

I said, “Okay. I'll make a note in the official record.” I pretended to open a big, heavy book. I grunted when I opened its huge cover. I dipped an imaginary quill pen in ink and as I wrote, I said, “Gianna doesn't like it.” I put the pen back in the ink cup, closed the giant book, and said, “Done.”

Gianna rolled her eyes at me.

We found Aunt Maria kneading dough as AJ filled salt and pepper shakers.

I gave Gianna the signal—a thumb in my ear and wiggling my other four fingers.

Gianna flipped through some papers and said, “Oh, Aunt Maria, there's a phone message here for you.”

Aunt Maria was up to her elbows in dough. “What's it say, the message?”

“Um—it's from the bank, I think. Um, I'm not sure.”

Snap!
Gianna was gonna crack under the pressure; I could feel it. Gianna Rossi could sneak around with Lorenzo from Pizzeria de Roma, but ask her to feed a fake phone message to Aunt Maria, and she crumbled like a block of extra-sharp Asiago cheese.

I took the slip of paper and read it. “It's from Eduardo Macelli. He wants to meet you at the bank at one o'clock. It says you should bring your business plan.”

“The business plan?! That is all the way across the city with my friend Anna. She is very smart with the numbers.”

“Maybe she can e-mail it to—” Gianna started saying, but I stomped on her foot. “Ah!” she cried.

Aunt Maria ignored her. “E-mail? Pfft! I take the bus. That's how we get things done. On the bus. I do not need the e-mail or the wonder web.”

“You mean the World Wide Web?” Gianna asked. “The Internet?”

“Neither of these. If I want to tell you something, I call on the telephone. Not this kind”—she pointed to my cell phone with floury hands—“the regular kind. Or I write a letter with the paper and pen. Remember paper?”

“Yes. I remember paper,” I said. “So, if you have to take the bus all the way to your friend's apartment before the bank, you should probably leave around noon. And I guess you won't be back until two, right? Because you'll have to bring the plan back to your friend.”

She studied the wall clock. “
Sì
. Two.
Mamma mia!
I'll miss lunch. That is no good.”

“Don't you
mamma mia
yourself. We'll be cool,” I reassured her. “We can totally handle it. It's like, mega cool.”

“What is this ‘mega cool'?”

“She means it's all fine,” Gianna said. “We can handle it. Jane, Rico, and I will help.”

Aunt Maria looked at AJ.

“It's okay,” he added. “I'm all over it.”

“All over what? I just want you working at the lunch. Do not go all over anything,” Aunt Maria said to him. She stirred sauce, checked on a tray of lasagna that was cooking in the oven, and gave a whole bunch of instructions to Vito, the cook who didn't speak English. At exactly noon, she hung her apron up and left through the back door.

“What are you gonna do when she goes to the bank and Eduardo Macelli doesn't know what she's talking about?” Gianna asked.

AJ interrupted, “Do I want to know what's going on?”

“No!” Gianna and I both said to him.

I said to Gianna, “Don't worry about Eduardo Macelli. He won't be at the bank. I took care of that.”

The back door opened. It was Rico. “
Aloha
, pizzeria peeps,” he said to AJ and Vito. “And Madame Big Idea.”

“Big idea?” AJ asked. “Are you talking about the matchmaking?”

“I was talking about the redecorating,” Rico said. “But matchmaking sounds . . . well . . . weird.”

“I don't believe in matchmakers,” AJ said.

Rico said, “I definitely want to hear more about this, but I understand there's a rogue chair cover needing attention pronto.” He held up a staple gun as if it was a chain saw. “It had better prepare to be stapled.”

“I'll get that.” Gianna took the stapler from him. “We don't want anyone getting hurt.”

“You can use a staple gun?” Rico asked her.

“You should see what I can do with duct tape.” She ran out and pounded the silver stapler into the chair. That flapping piece of fabric didn't stand a chance.

I asked AJ, “How do the samples look?”

He said, “Almost done!”

There was a knock at the back door. Rico opened it and held it for the deliveryman with the big Santa Claus belly. Santa pushed in a wheeled cart stacked with pasta—gnocchi, linguini, ravioli, and cavatelli. “
Buongiorno!
” he cried.

Then the front door opened, and potential matches walked in. Through the opening between the kitchen and dining room, I said, “Welcome to Amore Pizzeria.”

I glanced at Gianna. She sighed. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”

“Now? You're doing it
now
?” AJ whispered. “The matchmaking?”

“Yep,” I said. “Here it goes.”

“I gotta see this,” Rico said. The three of them stood at the counter between the kitchen and dining room, leaned on their elbows, and watched me work my magic.

“What kind of pizza do you like?” I asked the first pair of women.

“Kalamata olives,” one of them said. “We get it every time, but we've never had it here.”

“You'll love it.” I started thinking about a match for kalamata olives. People in America usually don't get that, so I figured it would be the same as black olives, which I would probably match with mushrooms, but it wasn't an exact science. I had a hunch about what else might do the trick. And if my plan worked like I hoped it would, the match I was looking for would come through the door soon.

I put the order in and sat more tables.

“I'm heading out with samples. Vito can read English, so give the orders to him,” AJ said. “Gianna will handle drinks, and Rico will clear dirty dishes.”

“Gotcha.” AJ left, and the next customer walked in. It was the person I was waiting for—Eduardo Macelli from the bank. “Welcome back,” I said.

He asked, “Is your
zia
here? I received the message to meet her.”

“You did?” Of course he did—I'd left him the message to come here. “I think maybe there's been a mix-up, because she went to meet you at the bank,” I said. “I'll call her on her cell phone.” I knew Aunt Maria didn't have a cell phone. “Why don't you eat while you wait for her?” I was going to set him up with more than lunch.

“Sì.”
He looked around the dining room. “Looks different,” he said.
“Buono.”

“Thanks. It's a work in progress.” I hooked my arm into his. “You know, some of the glue on the chairs is still drying.” I didn't even know if the chairs had any glue. “I hope you don't mind if I seat you with these two ladies just for a little while.” Before Eduardo Macelli or the ladies could object, I dashed to get him fizzy water. I remembered that Eduardo had liked the ricotta that I'd brought him yesterday. It wasn't a precise match with kalamata olives, but I had a feeling about this—bubbles in my gut. It felt right.

I told Gianna the drinks I needed. She pointed to Eduardo Macelli. “Why is he here?”

“So that he won't be at the bank when Aunt Maria gets there.”

“Oh. Makes sense,” she said.

“And who knows. Maybe he'll meet a lady,” I added. I'd made a mental note yesterday that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

“Oh jeez,” she said, and delivered the drinks.

When I returned with Eduardo Macelli's pizza, he and the two ladies were busily chatting about banking and football—that's soccer to you and me.

I continued to seat people in the newly decorated dining room.

A group of four giggly girls came in, holding white paper pie plates from AJ's sample tray. One said, “We're here for—” She hesitated.

“Pizza?” I asked.

“Our love match.” They sounded American. Probably here for summer vacation or a school trip. She said, “The guy handing out samples told us to come here to meet the matchmaker.” She glanced at the customers and asked me, “Can I get him?” She indicated a certain guy.

“Well, it doesn't really work that way,” I explained. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

“That depends. What kind of pizza does
he
like?”

“He hasn't ordered yet, but I need to know your favorite kind in order to match you.”

“
You're
the matchmaker?” she asked.

I nodded. “In the flesh.”

“Huh. I thought you'd be an old lady with a crystal ball or something. You're not even Italian.”

“Nah,” I said. “More twenty-first century. And American matchmakers have come a long way since the Victorian era.”

One of the girls, whose mouth was full of complicated orthodontic equipment, asked, “Why do you need to know our pizza?”

“It's just the way it works,” I said. “What kind do you like?”

The first girl tapped each of her friends' shoulders one at a time, telling me their faves. “And Riley”—that was the girl with the braces—“she likes bacon, piled real high. And I just like mine plain.”

“Well, in Rome we have an Italian bacon called pancetta. You'll love it,” I said to Riley.

She smiled, revealing the metal.

I wrote down the orders. I already had a few ideas for three of the girls, but I didn't know what I was going to do with a pile of pancetta. I had never even dealt with regular American bacon. “Wait here,” I said.