Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (32 page)

“I suppose one must do what is necessary to survive. I'm sure if you pray to God and ask for His forgiveness, He shall grant it,” Madre said.

The women lowered their heads, and a few made the sign of the cross as if Madre had bestowed a blessing upon or granted forgiveness to them.

Finally, Madre Carmela and Sorella Agata took their leave. As Sorella Agata had done the previous night, Madre promised they would return, but she told them it might be a few days until they could come back. Immediately, Sorella Agata saw the disappointed expressions on the women's faces. It hurt her greatly to see their pain.

On the way back to the convent, Madre Carmela talked about the pastries that would need to be made that week, but Sorella Agata was only half listening. She couldn't stop thinking about the women, especially the younger women who had been forced to prostitute themselves to survive. If only she could find a way to convince them to leave that life behind. But where would they go?

Over the course of the next two weeks, Sorella Agata made it her mission to visit the women every day. It was difficult for her to get away on a few of the days, particularly without Madre Carmela's noticing. Although Madre didn't mind that she visited the women every few days or so, she made Sorella Agata promise never to go alone, for she was worried about her safety, especially on her return home from that seedier part of town where the homeless women lived. But Sorella Agata had been unable to find someone who was free to escort her, and the thought of disappointing those women, even for a day, greatly distressed her. So she took her chances and snuck out of the convent, placing her faith in God to keep her safe as she made her way down the deserted dark alleys. Seeing the pleased looks on the women's faces every time she showed up was enough, for Sorella Agata, to justify taking the risk. She had never felt a sense of fulfillment as she did when she fed the women and offered words of encouragement to them. A few had even asked if they could pray with her.

One evening, as Sorella Agata made her way back out of the alleyway, she almost ran into a man. When she looked up into his face, Sorella Agata almost screamed. For she had seen that face in her nightmares. But it couldn't be. The man who stood before her looked like the same man who had changed her life forever—Marco.

“
Mi scusi,
Sorella.” The man tipped his hat and hurried off, down the dark alleyway that led to where the homeless women lived.

Sorella Agata's heart pounded against her chest. She felt like she was going to faint. Walking over to the wall, she held on to it, steadying herself. Was it really Marco? It had been seven years since the last time she'd seen him. That would make him thirty years old now. The man she'd seen had looked like he could be in his late thirties, but hadn't she always heard that a life filled with evil aged one prematurely? Though Rosalia was now twenty-four, everyone told her she looked as young as she had when they'd first met her. Even the homeless women from the alley did not believe she was in her mid-twenties.

If it was Marco, he hadn't recognized her in her nun's habit. And it was getting dark. She then realized he was headed toward where her new friends resided. Fear beat through her again, but this time it wasn't for her but for the women she'd come to care for in such a short amount of time. She walked quickly back down the alley, looking for Marco, but he was nowhere in sight. When she reached the spot where the women usually stayed, she saw a few of them talking among themselves, but no one who looked like the man she'd seen was present.

“Did you forget something, Sorella?” Gabriella came up behind her.

“I thought I saw a man I once knew making his way here. Did you see a man about six feet tall, in his thirties, with a brown hat?”

“I did see someone who matched that description, but he turned down that other alleyway.” Gabriella pointed to another alley that eventually led out to the main street.

“Have you seen him before?”

Gabriella shook her head.

“Do any of the men who are . . .” She searched her mind for the right word. “Do any of the men who are clients of the young girls who work on the streets ever come here?”

“No. The girls have been instructed never to let them know where they live. They are extra careful to make sure they aren't followed when they're returning home. They understand this is a safe haven for them, and as such, they must protect it at all costs. Who is this man? You seem to be frightened of him, Sorella Agata.”

“I think I was mistaken. That's all. He looked a lot like someone I once knew. I just wanted to know if he lived near here. Please, don't worry, and don't say anything to anyone else. I don't want to alarm them unnecessarily. I should be going, Gabriella. It's very late.
Buona notte
.”

“
Buona notte.
Be careful, Sorella.”

Sorella Agata felt a chill even though she was wearing her long habit and it was a muggy August night. Madre Carmela had been right to insist she be escorted whenever coming to the alleyway. Quickly making her way back to the convent, Sorella Agata prayed the man she had seen was not Marco.

26

Croccantini

CRISPY HAZELNUT MERINGUES

 

 

 

 

O
f all the sweets the pastry shop created, Sorella Agata's least favorite were
Croccantini
. She wanted to like the crispy hazelnut meringues and had tried to convince herself every time she made them that this would be the magical time that she would finally love them. But it never worked. On the other hand, the shop's patrons went crazy for them, and although she didn't like them personally, she had trained her palate so she could detect the way the egg whites, honey, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon batter should taste.

Sorella Agata carefully wrapped the
Croccantini
in waxed paper and then placed them in a large cake box. She was going to take them to the patients in the hospital in town where she volunteered once a month. She stepped outside and walked over to her bicycle. Placing her box of meringues in the basket that sat in front of her bike's handlebars, she adjusted her habit so that she could comfortably pedal. As she pedaled into town, Sorella Agata thought about how much she had to be thankful for this year for Christmas, which was just a week away. She couldn't believe it was just sixteen months ago when she'd met the homeless women living in the alleyway. And she couldn't believe that six months after she'd met them, she had converted the abandoned chapel, where Antonio used to sleep, into living quarters for all twelve of the homeless women.

The idea of having the women come live with them had sprouted in Sorella Agata's mind as winter began to set in last year; all she could think about was how uncomfortable the women would be living outside. Although the winter months in Sicily weren't as unbearable as in other countries, it would still not be comfortable. But it wasn't just the winter months she was thinking about. She couldn't bear the thought any longer of the younger women's working on the streets where they faced danger every day. And she worried about a few of the older women who suffered from health issues.

Madre Carmela had been worried about how they could take in another dozen women, but Sorella Agata had shown her they could afford it since their profits had doubled in the past couple of years, mainly due to Sorella Agata's pastries, which were being talked about throughout the town of Santa Lucia del Mela and even in neighboring villages. Furthermore, the increase in customers meant they needed more workers. They were struggling to keep up with the demand as the pastries were selling out almost as soon as they hit the display cases. Sorella Agata proposed that the women work in the kitchen and the shop.

“
Va bene,
Sorella Agata. As you know, I could never say no to you.” Madre Carmela had patted her cheek.

Ever since the homeless women had come to live on the convent's grounds, Sorella Agata had been even busier as she helped them adjust to their new surroundings and began instructing them in making pastries. She was happy, but she had to admit lately she felt once again as if something was missing, much the way she had felt after she had become a nun and was looking for a way to serve God. She had felt a sense of purpose and fulfillment when she was sneaking out of the convent and bringing food to the homeless women. But now that she had helped them and was watching them thrive, she felt her work in that aspect had been completed.

About an hour later, when Sorella Agata was done with her volunteer work at the hospital, her mind returned to what she'd been pondering earlier. Silently, she prayed to God, asking Him to give her a sign as to how she might serve Him best. Perhaps she should devote more time to volunteering at the hospital? No, that didn't feel quite right. Sorella Agata had learned, especially in the past couple of years, to trust her instincts more and more. As she walked toward where she had left her bike, she looked at the piazza in the village and was surprised not to see as many beggars or homeless people as she normally saw. She often saw young women, mostly runaways, when she came into town. If only she could help more people. What if she tried to get money to run a nonprofit shelter? If she received funds, she could expand the size of the former abandoned chapel and turn it into a functioning shelter. She could hire volunteers. Her mind began racing as she thought about how many more women she could save. Madre Carmela had told her once that it was impossible to save every woman, and that Sorella Agata needed to realize that it wasn't her responsibility to save everyone. Sorella Agata knew Madre was implying that she was trying to save herself whenever she rescued another woman who had been forced to live on the street because someone had mistreated or abused her. She was still trying to save herself from Marco. But it was more than that for her. This was Sorella Agata's way of serving God and thanking Him for rescuing her from that horrible cave as well as giving her a new life at the convent. If it hadn't been for Madre Carmela's compassion and generosity, she would not be here. The more Sorella Agata thought about it, the more she became convinced that her next calling was to open a women's shelter. Somehow, she would make it happen.

Her thoughts were diverted to a woman who was sleeping on a nearby bench. She had stunning blond hair that rippled in waves, reminding Sorella Agata of the painting
The Birth of Venus
by the great master of art Botticelli. She wore a long, flowing white skirt that was very dirty and a mariner's navy-and-white-striped off-the-shoulder shirt that had food stains. The woman's face was covered with a balled-up crocheted scarf. She almost looked like a handmade doll whose face hadn't been sewn on yet. Her head rested on a small suitcase.

Sorella Agata knelt by the woman's side.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you not feeling well? May I offer any assistance?” Sorella Agata spoke softly, hoping not to startle her.

The woman turned her head to look at her, but then realized her scarf was still covering her face. She pulled the scarf away and sat up.

Sorella Agata was stunned. “Teresa?”

“Who are you?” The pretty woman scowled. “I don't know any nuns, thank God!”

“Teresa, it's me! Rosalia!” Sorella Agata frantically pointed to her chest, but then realized how absurd that action was since she now looked nothing like the Rosalia whom Teresa once knew.

“Rosalia?” Teresa leaned her face in closer. Her eyes widened. “
Dio mio!
It
is
you!” She laughed and pulled Sorella Agata to her chest, hugging her tightly. Then, she pushed her away and looked at her again. “Are you really a nun now or are you dressed up for something? Carnevale isn't for another two months, so that can't be it. You truly did it, didn't you? You became a nun! Did my fanatical sister have anything to do with this?”

Teresa shook her head as if she were disappointed in her, but Sorella Agata could see she was smiling slightly. She looked just as happy to see her.

“No, your sister had nothing to do with my decision. I guess you should know Elisabetta now goes by Sorella Lucia—the name she chose after she took her vows to become a nun.”

Teresa slightly nodded her head. Sorella Agata waited to see if she would ask more about her sister, but Teresa remained silent.

“A lot has happened since I last saw you, Teresa. I know you had a horrible experience when you were a nun, but it hasn't been that way for me, and, as you said yourself, the sisters are different at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela.”

“True, except for Sorella Domenica. Is she as mean as ever?”

“She passed away last year from a brain aneurysm.”

“Hmmm. I'm not surprised. That woman repressed so much anger and hatred. Has anyone else taken her place? Who's the mean nun now?”

“No one. We do have more lay workers at the shop. They're living in the old, abandoned chapel, but Madre and I renovated it so it doesn't look like a chapel anymore. But that's a long story.”

“What ever happened to Antonio?”

“He went to Paris. I imagine he must be a chef now.” Sorella Agata did her best to sound nonchalant, but she could feel the weight of Teresa's stare on her.

“I'm sure that's a long story as well, right, my friend?” Teresa placed her hand on Sorella Agata's shoulder.

Sorella Agata smiled and placed her own hand over Teresa's. “You don't know how good it is to see you, Teresa! We've all missed you, and Sorella Lucia . . . Elisabetta . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Is she all right?” Teresa's voice filled with concern. Sorella Agata had been troubled earlier when Elisabetta's name had come up that Teresa hadn't asked immediately if her sister was all right. But now she heard the worry in her voice. And she knew her old friend. Teresa had probably not asked about Elisabetta to protect herself from learning that her sister might be angry with her for eloping with Francesco and then leaving without saying good-bye.

“
Si, si.
She's all right. But she misses you, too. I know she regrets how she acted toward you when you were still living with us at the convent. We came to visit you and Francesco, but you had moved. She was so saddened. Why did you leave without saying good-bye to any of us? I thought you had told me we would remain friends even after your marriage?”

Sorella Agata couldn't hide the hurt in her voice. First, she had lost her family, then Antonio, although she knew she had been the one to push him away, and then Teresa.

“I'm so sorry, Rosalia. I never meant to hurt you, or Elisabetta either, but things got pretty horrible for me not long after I married Francesco.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Sorella Agata noticed once again how dirty Teresa's clothes were. And she had found her sleeping on the bench like a vagrant.

“Are you living on the streets, Teresa?”

Teresa bit her lip and looked away. She nodded.

Sorella Agata reached over and hugged her. Teresa collapsed against Sorella Agata and sobbed so hard her whole body shook.

“It's all right, Teresa. I'm here. You are not alone anymore. I will help you.” Sorella Agata stroked Teresa's hair.

Sorella Agata couldn't help remembering how once her own hair had been this long. She felt a momentary pang of sadness. Sometimes she still missed things from her old life, like running a brush through her long, shiny dark locks, the few pretty dresses she had owned before she became a nun, and of course, her family. While the ache had lessened a bit over the years, especially once she became a nun and devoted herself to helping others, she still thought about them every day. Once a year, she went to the police station and checked in with L'ispettore Franco, always knowing what his answer would be. While she contemplated giving up on asking him if he had received any news, something inside her wouldn't let her, even though it felt like a thousand daggers had been pierced into her chest every time he shook his head and lowered his gaze. And, after that day she believed she'd spotted Marco, she had called L'ispettore Franco, but he had told her they had never gotten word that he had returned to Messina.

“I was such a fool, Rosalia.” Teresa pulled herself away. “I can still call you Rosalia, can't I? What does everyone else call you now? Sorella Rosalia?”

“Sorella Agata. Remember, we're supposed to choose new names when we become nuns, just as Elisabetta chose Sorella Lucia.”

“I can't think of her as anything other than Elisabetta.” Teresa's voice sounded sad.

“You never did tell me what your name was when you were a nun.”

“Don't remind me. I blocked that part of my life out of my memory so entirely that I don't even remember what my name was!”

Sorella Agata laughed. “I see your sense of humor is still intact!”

“I'm sorry if I'm being disrespectful. I will call you Sorella Agata, if you wish.”

“Please, go on, Teresa. You were saying you were such a fool.”

“I was such a fool to have fallen in love with Francesco. He was nothing more than a drunk!”

Sorella Agata then remembered how much he had been drinking at the restaurant after their wedding. She had written it off to his celebrating his marriage, but she also remembered how Teresa had looked embarrassed a few times and had seemed to be scolding him.

“He had a drinking problem even before we were married, but I was too stupid to see it then. I thought he was just having a little fun whenever we went out. But after we got married, I saw it was a daily habit for him. At first, he just got drunk and kept to himself. But then he began attacking me, first with insults, then with his fists.” Teresa pulled up her skirt and showed Sorella Agata a three-inch-long scar.

“I have him to thank for this. He cut me with a broken beer bottle. He was convinced I was cheating on him, but he was the one cheating on me with every willing whore in the city of Messina. Finally, one day, he came home sober. I was shocked. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him sober. He announced to me in a calm voice that he was leaving me for another woman. He told me I had a day to clear out my belongings and to leave our house. It was my turn to fly into a rage. I pounded him with my fists, but naturally, he overpowered me and threw me against the wall. He then stormed out, but not before saying that if he found me there the next day, he would literally kick me out with his own two feet and with just the clothes on my back.” Teresa laughed eerily. “He actually thought he was being generous by giving me a day's notice and letting me take my belongings. This has been my home for the past year.” She gestured to the bench she lay on.

“So you and Francesco never left Messina? Your sister and I just assumed you had left the city when we didn't find you living at your old residence any longer.”