California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances (58 page)

The friends chuckled and then ate in silence for a few moments before Elizabeth brought up the question of John again.

“You’ve got that look in your eye, Annie,” she said. “Something’s up.”

Annie looked down at her lap and then back up with a grin. “I’ve agreed to marry him.”

“That’s wonderful, Annie!” Elizabeth leapt up and gave her friend a hug. “He’s a good man — I know you’ll be happy.”

“Now what?” Mandy returned with the sound of Elizabeth’s whoop.

“Annie’s getting married!” Elizabeth said.

“John?” Mandy asked.

“Who else?”

“Well … that’s not really news, is it? It was inevitable.” Mandy hugged Annie. “Congratulations.” A frown, obviously fake, crossed her face. “Now if you two ladies would settle down, I have work to do.”

Elizabeth and Annie laughed and sat back in their chairs.

“Did you get a ring?” Elizabeth asked. “I know I would have noticed, but you might have been hiding it.”

Annie shook her head. “No ring. He’s buying me a horse, instead.” A grin lit up her face. “I love it! A horse of my own!”

“How’s David handling it?”

“He’s okay. I think he realized after all the trouble last year that Fred and I aren’t ever getting back together. Fred getting sober has helped, too. He’s more realistic about what our problems were. It isn’t perfect.” Annie shrugged. “But it’s better.” She picked up her fork and twirled some spaghetti. “And I’m over-the-moon happy.” The smile lit her face again.

Elizabeth would give a lot to be as joyful as her friend.

She’d better learn to make ravioli soon.

The next morning when she woke, her resolve was back. She was not going to be defeated by flour and eggs! As she sipped her coffee, she considered her life.

Everything was in limbo. The bank wouldn’t get back to her for a few weeks. She’d passed the first review, but now they had to send it to corporate headquarters where they’d crunch the numbers some more.

She hated waiting.

She stared at the ravioli press she’d gotten from Italy and imagined the life that Marcos had dangled in front of her. If he were here he’d be able to carry some of the frustration for her. The idea of a partner to share the joys and sorrows of life sounded much better than a kitchen full of flour and forms at the bank. And Marcos had been careful not to promise the impossible; he only wanted her to give them a chance.

And the only way she could give them a chance was to take a large risk.

“Is that true?” The coach’s question haunted her.

Ignoring the nausea rumbling in her stomach, Elizabeth thought about seeing Marcos in Italy. Alicia had made incredible strides with the shop, so she didn’t need to worry about that. If she bought her own refundable ticket, she could leave early if necessary. The ticket would be expensive, but the peace of mind would be worth it.

So no risk. Really.

Then why was her stomach still tumbling?

She fingered the press again. What would Sarah think of her mother taking off for a wild fling with a man she barely knew? What would her friends think?

Of course, Annie already knew about the trip to Napa and heartily approved.

Her insides gave another lurch.

But the only way to get that ticket was to learn to make ravioli.

She stood and went to her office where she browsed the internet to get the phone number for Lucellos, the small Italian shop in Los Gatos.

“Hello?” the shopkeeper answered. “How can I help you?”

“Um … ” How did she ask the question?

“Yes … yes … ” The woman sounded impatient.

“Um … I’m looking for someone to teach me how to make ravioli. I’ve tried everything I can and it looks horrible. It’s runny, or lumpy, or … ” The words tumbled out.

“Hand or machine?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to make your raviolis by hand or by machine?” The shopkeeper asked again.

“By hand.”

“It’s difficult. Let me see … ”

Elizabeth could hear the woman shuffling papers in the background. “Well, if it’s too much trouble.”

“I didn’t say it was impossible. Just difficult. Maybe that is your problem. You are too impatient to make ravioli. Ah … here.” She rattled off a name and a number. “She’s old … but she’s good. And listen … you must be patient. The pasta doesn’t like to be bossed around.”

Elizabeth heard the click as the woman hung up the phone.

She took a deep breath and then dialed the number she’d scribbled down.

“Hello?” a heavily accented voice said. “What do you want?”

“Uh … Lucellos gave me your number. They said you could teach me to make ravioli.”

“Hah! Daughter-in-law thinks she’s too good to make ravioli. But she sends people to
me
to teach them!”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Look, I didn’t mean to trouble you … ”

“No. No. Is fine. If you are teachable. Who are you?”

“Oh! My name is Elizabeth Ladina.”

“Better you should learn to make tortillas I think.”

This woman was definitely not the right person to teach her. “Um … my parents are Italian, but I’m not sure … ”

“Okay. Italian parents okay. Mexicans okay, too. Just want to make sure the heart is on the right continent. It takes heart to make ravioli. Tortillas, too. You come this afternoon and I will show you.”

“I can’t make it this afternoon.”

“You want to make ravioli?”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon.” The woman gave her an address. “One o‘clock. No later.”

The phone clicked.

• • •

The woman’s home was one of the small Victorians that gave Los Gatos its charm. Elizabeth arrived with minutes to spare. Seconds after she knocked, the door flew open and a short woman in a full-length apron jerked the door open.

“Good. Respectful. In. In.” The woman turned and walked down the hallway to the back of the house.

Elizabeth closed the door behind her and followed the woman into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been upgraded since 1970s avocado green. “I’m Elizabeth,” she said as she placed her bag on a small table next to a gold rotary phone.

“Call me Nana. Everyone does. Got your apron?”

“Right here.” Elizabeth pulled on the garment she’d brought with her. Ravioli experiments over the last months had taught her respect for the mess flour could make.

Nana handed her a sack of flour. “Make a flour volcano.”

Elizabeth looked at the sack. “Volcano.”

“You know, volcano … like school … science.
Boom
… volcano!”

Suddenly, Elizabeth realized what the woman meant. She looked around for measuring cups.

“What you want? Pour out the flour. Make a volcano!”

“Measuring cups?”

The woman threw up her hands, grabbed the sack and dumped out a mound of flour. She shaped a cone in the top of the mound. “Measure with your eyes. Cups! Now add eggs. Two.” She looked at Elizabeth with suspicion. “You know how to crack egg?”

“Yes.” Carefully, Elizabeth cracked two eggs into the crater.

Nana handed her a fork. “Stir. Keep mound together.”

Elizabeth began to scramble the egg and flour together, patting the edges of the mound after each three scrambles. It was a rhythm she’d developed during her previous attempts: fork, fork, fork, pat, pat, fork, fork, fork, pat, pat … .

“You think too much,” Nana announced.

Gee, where have I heard that before?

“Feel the dough with your hands. The ravioli will tell you what it needs,” Nana continued.

Elizabeth tried to let go over her mantra. She thought back to the tasting she’d attended with Marcos — the swirl of the wine in her mouth, the touch of his fingers on his skin.

All of a sudden, she understood. As if the dough had spoken to her, she began to respond to the texture of the mixture, instinctively forking the egg where the flour needed it the most.

“Little salt.” Nana sprinkled granules over the mound. “
Un momento
.”

Elizabeth pulled her hands back as the woman drizzled olive oil over the gooey mess. Then Nana added a little water from a glass jar. “
Bene
. Continue.”

“But how do you know … ”

The woman wagged a finger under Elizabeth’s nose. “You listen to your hands and your heart. They tell you.” Nana handed her a dough scraper. “To help.”

Elizabeth continued to knead the dough into life.

“Good … good … ” Nana muttered. “Maybe a little harder.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and slipped onto a stool. “Feet get sore now.”

Elizabeth kept kneading under the woman’s watchful eye, her back and feet beginning to ache.

Finally, the woman said, “Is enough.” She pulled a three-foot rolling pin off the counter and handed it to Elizabeth. “Now, you roll.”

Since this was the point she’d always gotten into trouble, Elizabeth’s efforts were tentative.

“Roll! Roll!” Nana grabbed the rolling pin and pressed down on the ball of dough with quick rapid movements. “Don’t be afraid of dough! Mistakes can be fixed. Once you roll, you stretch a little … then roll … feel the dough. Ask it what it needs!”

Under Nana’s tutelage, Elizabeth pushed and prodded the surprisingly supple dough into a reasonable shape. Nana showed her how to use the rolling pin to stretch the dough to a rectangle and cut it in two. Together they spread a filling Nana had in the refrigerator on one layer and topped it with the other before cutting the tiny squares.

“I will freeze these and cook later.” Nana pulled down two wine glasses from a cabinet and poured deep red wine into each. “Sangiovese. Good Italian wine for a good Italian job.
Salute
!”

Elizabeth smiled and took a sip. Then she frowned. She’d made ravioli, but would she ever be able to repeat the process? There were no measurements, nothing was exact. How could she replicate this?

“What?” the woman asked, pouring herself a second glass of wine.

“I can’t do this again. I don’t know how. What if I make another mess?”

“So what?” Nana put her glass on the counter. “Your trouble is you want to put everything in a box. Life isn’t like that. You have to live life with your heart. If you don’t … ” She wagged her finger under Elizabeth’s nose again. “You will only have regrets when you are old like me. Live life to the fullest. Take a risk. That way,” she sat on her stool and finished her wine. “You will have memories to relive. Memories can be better than anything because time polishes the things we did. The bad things don’t look so bad. The good things look even better.”

She stood, went to her freezer and rummaged around, finally pulling out a bag which she handed to Elizabeth. “I made these last week. You take home, cook for ten minutes and eat.
Bene
.”

She took the empty glass from Elizabeth’s hand, placed it on the counter and marched to the front door to open it.

Elizabeth picked up her purse and followed her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Fine. Fine. Now go. I need to sleep.” Nana gently pushed Elizabeth out the door and closed it behind her.

Elizabeth heard the lock click and walked to her car. It was only after she got in that she realized she was still wearing her apron.

• • •

The next morning, Elizabeth rose full of purpose. She called Alicia to tell her she wasn’t coming into the shop, put on her apron and got to work.

An hour later, she threw the sodden mess into the garbage.

Sinking into a kitchen chair, she put her face in her hands and let the tears of frustration come. She couldn’t make ravioli and she’d never be able to see Marcos again. At the age of thirty-eight, she was a failure.

“Is that true?” The voice echoed in her head and she threw her coffee cup against a cupboard. It broke with a satisfying crash, spewing remains of liquid across the cabinet and floor.

“I can do this! I can make sense of my life.” She began to pace back and forth, for the first time in her life ignoring the mess. What was it Marcos had said?

“I think too much!”

She heard the voice of Nana — ravioli is made with the hand and the heart, not the mind. Marcos had said that, too.

Using the side of her arm, she swept the table clear, dough, flour and measuring cups clanging around her.

She dumped a mound of flour on the table, punched a hole in the top and cracked in an two eggs into it. Willing her heart and hands to listen, she began to create the pasta, feeling the heat of generations of women from her family join her.

Every time a thought whispered in her mind, she banished it.

Time passed without her awareness and the dough stretched beneath her hands and rolling pin. She ignored the little holes and tears, pushing perfectionism to the same dungeon as her other thoughts.

When a long sheet lay across her table, she stopped to pull out the ricotta mixture she’d made days ago in anticipation. She spread it across the bottom layer, covered it with a second layer of dough and cut the squares.

While the tender pockets boiled, she poured a second cup of coffee, still ignoring the disaster around her. At the ding of the timer, she pulled out a few raviolis and shaved parmesan cheese over them.

She sat down with her bowl and began to eat.

The back door slammed open. “What the hell happened here?” Sarah’s voice shrieked.

“I made ravioli. Have some. They’re delicious.”

Elizabeth stepped off the plane in Genoa the day after Christmas. As she navigated the hallways and lines of Italian customs, she kept repeating her mantra, “Heart and hands, heart and hands.”

In the days since the ravioli explosion in her kitchen, she’d looked at her life with new eyes. She realized she’d spent most it making up for a mistake she’d made as a teenager. Letting go of her self-imposed disappointment was going to be difficult, but she was determined to do it.

The coach, Carol, had helped her sort through a lot of her thinking. A week before Christmas, Carol had proudly announced that Elizabeth was done. Lara had never sued her. And, right before she got on the plane, the bank had called her to let her know her loan had been approved.