Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (40 page)

Antonio smiled before continuing. “I thought about leaving Paris and coming back home to Sicily after I lost Claudette and Giovanni in the fire, but I didn't want to take Veronique away from her maternal grandparents, and, as I said, they helped me raise her when I was working. But something happened in Paris that made me realize we could no longer stay there. Veronique is fifteen now, and both her maternal grandparents passed away in the past couple of years. So we made the move.

“One day while I was in my
trattoria,
I overheard the conversation at one of the tables of patrons who were dining there. They were talking about the shelter for abused women that you had founded in town. But I had no idea you were the one who had started the shelter, since they were referring to you as Sorella Agata, and naturally, I didn't know you had become a nun.

“So finally, one day, I had time and decided I would work up the courage to go to the pastry shop to see if you were still there. This was a week ago. I asked one of the nuns behind the seller's window if you still worked there, and she told me you no longer went by Rosalia, but instead were now Sorella Agata. I thought she was mistaken and gave her your full name—Rosalia DiSanta—but she told me that you were the only Rosalia to have worked at the shop. I was quite shocked that you had become a nun, but, as I mentioned before, the more I thought about it, the less I was surprised. After all, you hadn't allowed yourself to be loved by me because of what had happened to you in that horrible cave. So I realized it had been hard for you to trust men, and if you weren't able to fully trust me, then there was a good chance you would never feel completely comfortable trusting another man.”

“That is true, Antonio, but my becoming a nun was about so much more than that. I truly received a calling and wanted to serve God to the fullest.”

“I can see that now, especially after learning about the women's shelter and the work you've done. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I am just being honest about what my thoughts were when I found out you had become a nun.”

“Go on.”

“After getting over my initial shock, I asked the nun behind the pastry shop window if you were there and if I could talk to you. She told me you were at the shelter. I then remembered the people at my restaurant talking about the shelter and saying that a Sorella Agata ran it. I couldn't believe the irony of all of this and wondered if God had sent Veronique and me back to Sicily for this reason.”

“Irony? I'm sorry, Antonio, I'm not following you.”

“You were right in noting earlier that Veronique looks sad. She has been through hell. You see, Rosalia, like you were all those years ago when you were just a teenager, my granddaughter was raped.”

Sorella Agata once again felt the shiver she had felt when she first saw the haunted look in Veronique's eyes while she stood next to Antonio in the pastry shop. Now, Sorella Agata knew why she had sensed something was very wrong. For Veronique had the same vacant, dark stare Sorella Agata had had when she looked at herself in the mirror for weeks after Madre Carmela had rescued her from the cave. Tears came to her eyes.

“Oh, Antonio, you and your family have been through so much as well. May I ask when it happened?”

“It happened last year. As with you, it was someone she knew, a boy from her school. He followed her as she was coming home one evening. It was winter, so the streets were already dark as she was making her way home on her bicycle. He came up from behind her, caused her to fall off her bicycle, and then he clapped his hand over her mouth as he carried her to an alleyway. I don't know how she was able to pull herself together and make her way back home afterward.”

Antonio ran his hand through his hair. Then, he began sobbing.

Sorella Agata stood up and went over to him. She knelt by his side and spoke to him.

“There was nothing you could have done, Antonio. It was not your fault. I, of all people, know about blaming oneself, and it took me a very long time to realize there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to prevent what Marco did to me. And it is the same with what happened to Veronique. Do you hear me?”

“I should have known you would know I was feeling guilty. I shouldn't have let her come home by herself once the sun went down earlier in the winter.”

“You can't watch her all the time. Please, don't blame yourself any longer. It will do little good in helping Veronique get the help she needs, and it will only hinder both of you.”

“Oh, Rosalia, she still screams at night from the nightmares she has. I've tried to get her therapy, but the therapist told me she refuses to say a word during their sessions together. I don't know what to do to get through to her. I was hoping these last few months, being here in Sicily, would help—the change of scenery and all—but she still seems unreachable. At least she does help me in the restaurant. I think that is a bit of a distraction for her. But I'm afraid it's not much. She has nightmares several times a week. Will you try to help her, Rosalia? Please. She's all I have left, and I'm afraid of what will happen to her once I'm gone someday if she hasn't found a way to come to terms with what happened to her.”

“Of course, I will help her, my friend. And I promise you, she
will
get better.”

32

Fior di Pistacchio

CHEWY PISTACHIO COOKIES

 

 

 

 

C
laudia looked around at the interior of the small abandoned chapel. The only features remaining that gave any indication it had once been a chapel were a few stained-glass windows and a life-size statue of the Madonna that stood in the entryway. The other saints' statues that had once surrounded its interior had been moved to the active chapel where the nuns went to Mass. After the chapel had been renovated to provide a safe haven for the women Sorella Agata had first rescued from the streets, the furnishings were kept simple, but there were a few touches that gave it a cozier sense of home like the ceramic vases holding silk flowers that adorned the night tables. Claudia was almost certain Sorella Agata's mother had made these silk flowers. Small paintings depicting Sicilian landscapes such as Mount Etna and the beaches of Taormina hung on the walls. Claudia couldn't help but see the irony in Sorella Agata's relaying the story of her reunion with Antonio here in the chapel where he had lived while staying at the convent and where he had first told her he was in love with her.

“So your apprentice, Veronique, is Antonio's granddaughter.”

Claudia said this more as a statement than a question, since it would have been too much of a coincidence that there would be another woman with the name of Veronique, which was uncommon in Italy. She then remembered how she had noticed that Veronique's accent wasn't completely Italian. And, of course, her name was French.

“
Si
. She is Antonio's granddaughter.”

“Does she live here now?”

“Not permanently. She still lives with her grandfather for half of the week, and the other half, including weekends, she lives here. Antonio's home and
trattoria
are just outside of town, and it is easier for Veronique to sleep here while she is studying to become a pastry chef.”

“She doesn't seem at all like the young girl you described when you first met her four years ago. I didn't detect any sadness in her; rather she seemed like any other happy teenager who was inquisitive about the world.”

“Now, she is like this, and Antonio tells me she was like this before she was raped. Thankfully, she has made enormous strides in healing from her ordeal, and she has learned to put it as much as possible behind her.”

“So you were able to help her, then.”

“I was. But I must say, for a time, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to keep my promise to Antonio that she would get better. It took Veronique even longer than it took me to engage with the world. I even tried the tactics Madre Carmela had used with me, introducing her to a new sweet every time I spoke to her. In the beginning, Antonio was only bringing her here on his days off from the restaurant, which usually only amounted to one or two days a week. He couldn't spare more time away since the restaurant was still new, and he was trying to keep it afloat to make a new life for himself and Veronique here. He didn't want to leave her full-time with a bunch of strangers either. She was still very mistrustful of everyone, even women. After a month, I could see she seemed to relax more when she came here. She liked going to our sitting room and reading a few of the books we keep in the bookshelves there. I sensed that if she didn't spend more time with me, I would not be able to get through to her. So one day, I asked her if she would feel comfortable staying here for a few days, so I could show her how to bake. I told her this way she could prepare the desserts in her grandfather's
trattoria,
and how wonderful that would be if the desserts the restaurant's patrons were eating were made by her own hands. That was the first time that I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. She said she would like that.

“We started off slowly, and she only stayed for the weekends at first. I began by teaching her the simpler desserts so she wouldn't get frustrated immediately and possibly give up. But I had no cause to worry. She was a rapid learner and eager to move on to the next pastry once she had mastered the previous one. She reminded me so much of myself in those early days when I was getting over my own ordeal and becoming more enraptured with pastry making. After a few months, she agreed to stay half of the week, and I offered her the opportunity to be one of our apprentices. She readily accepted.

“Six months later, I felt that perhaps she might be ready to hear the story of how Marco had kidnapped and violated me. She listened, but said nothing once I was done. I never asked her outright to talk to me about what had happened to her. I knew she had to want to talk about it, and she had to come to me of her own will. A few weeks after I'd told her what had happened to me, she surprised me one evening as I was getting ready for bed. She told me all about her classmate following her on her way home and how he had raped her in that alleyway. She then told me that she had felt different from other girls her age after that had happened to her, and she had hated herself for it. But when she heard I had also been raped and she saw how I had managed to survive and have the life I have, she realized there was hope for her. She cried and told me she wanted to get better and try to move on.

“With her permission, I referred her to a counselor at the shelter I'd founded. I told her I could be present for the first few sessions until she felt more comfortable with the counselor. She was scared, but she decided to trust me. After the first session, she told me she would be fine meeting with the counselor alone. And from that day forward, she continued to get better.”

“You gave her something to live for, Sorella Agata, just as Madre Carmela had given you something to live for by teaching you how to make pastries.”

“I didn't realize until I became a nun how brilliant Madre's strategies for helping me to heal were. But isn't that what most of us want and need out of life—a sense of purpose, a chance to feel that we have something to give back to the world? Veronique and I both felt like we were no good after what had happened to us. For a brief time, we let the men who had violated us take away our dignity and sense of self-worth. Besides providing the women at the shelter with a safe haven, I and the other volunteers there work with them to help them realize they still have so much of themselves to give back to the world.”

“If you wouldn't mind, Sorella, I would love to see this shelter you founded before I head back to New York.”

Sorella Agata's face lit up. “Of course. I would love to take you there and introduce you to a few of the women.”

“So you must see Antonio regularly since his granddaughter stays here part of the week. How has it been these past few years since he's been back?”

“He has continued to be the dear friend he was when I needed one the most all those years ago. I, and the other sisters here, have even dined at his
trattoria
—free of charge!” Sorella Agata laughed.

It was good for Claudia to see her laugh after all the tears she'd seen the poor woman shed, which reminded her . . .

“Sorella, I have yet to actually watch you make the
cassata
. I haven't wanted to pressure you, but given that my stay here is almost up, do you think I could watch you make it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it will be, but again, I must warn you that you will be disappointed. There is—”

“No secret ingredient. Yes, I know!” Claudia laughed.

 

The following morning, Claudia woke up early and headed down to the kitchen, anxious to finally witness Sorella Agata make her
cassata
. Claudia tried to keep her expectations low because she knew there was the very real chance she would not discover the nun's secret since Sorella Agata kept insisting there wasn't one.

When Claudia reached the kitchen, she was surprised to see an older gentleman taking a baking sheet out of the oven. Puffy-looking cookies coated in confectioners' sugar lined the baking sheet. Claudia didn't think she'd ever seen cookies that were baked with confectioners' sugar rather than dusting the powdered sugar on the cookies after they had baked. The man looked up when Claudia stepped in.

“
Buongiorno,
” she said, and smiled.

“
Buongiorno.
You must be Claudia.” The gentleman wiped his hands with a dish towel and came over, extending his hand. “Antonio Bruni.”

Claudia was speechless for a moment before she realized she'd left him hanging with his hand extended. Shaking his hand, she said, “I'm sorry. Need my espresso.” She laughed lightly. “I'm Claudia Lombardo, but you knew that already.”

Though he spoke heavily accented English, it was much better than Sorella Agata's English. She wondered when he had had the time to learn English since it sounded like he had been kept busy with his culinary training and running his restaurant in Paris and now the one in Sicily.

“
Si,
my granddaughter Veronique and Sorella Agata have told me about you and your book. Veronique is so excited. She can't wait to see the book.”

“She's a lovely young woman, and from what I understand, she is on her way to becoming a fine pastry chef, just like Sorella Agata.”

“
Si,
she is learning from the best. Me, as well.” Antonio laughed boisterously.

“Sorella Agata did tell me you and she shared a friendly competition when you were both apprentices here years ago.”

“
Si, si.
” Antonio's eyes seemed to go to that moment in time as he stared at the wall behind Claudia. “Have you seen this photograph?”

Claudia looked to where Antonio gestured with his head.

“No, I don't believe I have.” She walked over to the photograph.

It was an old black-and-white photo of the nuns at the convent. The photo looked like it could've been from the fifties from the style of eyeglasses a few of the nuns were wearing.

“See this young woman here?”

He pointed to where three women were standing, dressed in sundresses. The woman he pointed to had long black hair that was blowing in the breeze. Some of her hair covered part of her face.

“That is Sorella Agata. Or rather, that was her before she became a nun. She went by Rosalia back then.” Antonio looked at the photo, smiling.

Claudia moved in closer. “My God, she was absolutely breathtaking. Her hair was so long.”

“It was. Beautiful, dazzling black hair. But she is still beautiful. Such an amazing woman.”

Claudia looked at Antonio. His eyes beamed as he said this, and she thought she heard his voice catch a little. He still loved her. While it likely wasn't the same passionate love he and Rosalia had once shared when they were young, there was no doubt he continued to care for her very much.

“
Vieni.
You must try the batch of
Fior di Pistacchio
I have made.”

Claudia followed him to the counter where the baking sheet of cookies he'd taken out of the oven lay.

“So, I'm surprised Sorella Agata lets you bake in her kitchen.” Claudia smiled before taking one of the
Fior di Pistacchio
.

“Eh. She lets me dabble. We did learn in this kitchen side by side all those years ago after all.”

“These are so good.”

“They are cookies made with pistachios and almonds, soft cookies, not like biscotti. There is another version called
Fior di Mandorla
that is made only with almonds. When Sorella Agata and I were apprenticing here, we tried the
Fior di Mandorla
from one of the best pastry shops in Messina. We memorized how they tasted, and then we came back here and made the convent's
Fior di Mandorla
taste even better than the ones we had in Messina.”

Claudia remembered when Sorella Agata had told her about the first time Antonio had taken her to Messina, and she remembered her mentioning the almond cookies. But she didn't let Antonio know just how much Sorella Agata had told her about their shared past.

He looked at his watch. “Ah! I must go. It was nice to meet you, Claudia.
Arrivederci!
”

“It was nice to meet you, too.”

She watched Antonio as he walked away and tried to imagine what he must've looked like when he was young. He wasn't in the group photo he had shown her. Maybe he was the one who had taken the picture? From the way he had aged, she was certain he had been a very handsome young man.

An hour later, Claudia was watching Sorella Agata make her famous
cassata
. Claudia had her legal pad in one hand and jotted down all the ingredients Sorella Agata was adding as well as noting her methods, even though the nun's recipe book lay open next to her. Of course, Sorella Agata no longer needed to follow her recipe book after all the years she'd been making her pastries; the book was there more for Claudia's sake so that she could see for herself that the nun was not deviating from the recipe—or adding any secret ingredients.

Although Sorella Agata allowed her other workers to use an electric mixer, she still preferred to beat her cake batters with a wire whisk. Being in her sixties didn't stop her from beating the cake batter with quick strokes, and she didn't seem to tire. Claudia smiled as she watched her and knew she would miss watching Sorella Agata and the other workers whipping up their heavenly creations. Sorella Agata seemed lost in thought as she stared at her batter, and then, suddenly, tears were sliding down her face. Reaching for a paper towel from the dispenser that stood on the counter, Claudia ripped off a sheet and was about to hand it to Sorella Agata when she noticed one of her teardrops spill into her cake batter. Claudia paused as she suddenly remembered all the times she'd witnessed Sorella Agata crying as she baked. She cried when she was making her cannoli. . . her
Torta al Mandarino
. . . . In fact, there were many times Claudia had seen her crying, and it was often while she was making her pastries. There had even been times when Claudia had seen Sorella Agata crying while the other pastry workers were present, but they didn't seem to pay any heed to her. Was it because they had become accustomed to seeing her cry while she worked, and there were only so many instances one could ask her if she was all right without making the situation more awkward than it already was? A thought entered Claudia's mind. Could the secret behind Sorella Agata's
cassata
be her tears? And not just her
cassata,
since Claudia had also noticed that the other pastries that were made by the nun's hands always tasted better than those that were made by the rest of the workers. Sorella Agata's pastries surpassed versions of the pastries Claudia had tried at other pastry shops in Sicily and even back home in New York. No, it was too crazy.