“The impostor.”
“The actor. Who played the ambassador. Anyway, he admired that about us. About Roseto. He liked that we were just like his family in South Philly. That we looked out for one another—that we watched out for each other’s kids and shared the harvest of our gardens and took care of our old people, and when we did the little things, like bake a cake, we’d bake two, one for home and one for the neighbor. He was one of us.”
“That’s how he conned us.” Eddie nodded. “We believed him because he was like us.”
“A stranger can show up and be part of the family.”
Nicky came back on the screen, and Mamie motioned for Eddie to hush. Onscreen, Nicky lit a cigarette and leaned against the bar in the background while a couple had an argument in the foreground. Nicky, however, didn’t take his eyes off the fight, which forced the audience at home to focus on it too.
“You never answered my question, hon.”
“What’s that?” Mamie kept her eyes on the screen.
“Why did every woman in town go for him?”
“Eddie, it’s not important now. It’s yesterday’s news. Irrelevant.”
“I want to know.”
Mamie sighed. “All right.” She straightened her maternity blouse over her stomach and looked up at her husband. “He listened.”
*
The Oldfield estate in Radnor was a splendid Tudor mansion which sat high on a hill before a clear blue lake so large it reflected the timbers on the facade. The footpaths leading to the house from the circular driveway were carpeted in thick emerald green moss. Hortense could not hear the sound of her own footsteps as she approached the front door. She observed that rich people lived in quietude; a perk of wealth was tranquility. Hortense stood back from the doorbell and took several deep breaths before pressing the gold button.
A butler answered the door. “May I help you?” he asked in a polished British accent.
“I am Mrs. Mooney. Mrs. Turnbough made arrangements for me to meet with Mrs. Oldfield.”
The butler invited Hortense into the house. She stood in the entry hall, which gleamed under the lights of a chandelier dripping with onyx daggers and glass medallions. Hortense had never seen a chandelier made with black crystals, but she liked it.
The butler led Hortense to the library. The circular room was filled ceiling to floor with bookshelves. The walls were covered in red damask fabric. A suite of chairs and a sofa in forest green leather were arranged before a formal fireplace.
Edna Oldfield stood at her writing desk. Slim and tall, her white hair matched her pearls. Her plain suit was made of navy blue silk wool, the Main Line standard.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me today,” Hortense said as she and Mrs. Oldfield sat across from one another in front of the fireplace.
“Mrs. Turnbough tells me you’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I have. I have a passion and I’ve created something, I believe, is special and essential.” Hortense sat up straight in the chair.
“Mrs. Mooney, tell me your story.”
“I met an Italian woman whose people were from Venice. And she shared her very delicious tomato sauce with me. She passed away and left me the recipe and its secret ingredient. I have tested it for two years, done my own canning, and now I’m ready to sell it to the public.”
Edna leaned back in the chair. “Let’s say you have the best sauce in the history of sauce.”
“I do.”
“Why should I invest my money in you?” She squinted at Hortense.
“Because you’ll make more money. A lot more money.” Hortense squinted back.
“Why shouldn’t I invest my money in you?”
“Because I’m colored?”
“You bring up a good point. Why would anyone buy Italian sauce from a colored lady?”
“Because the only color they will see is red. Marinara. The recipe is Italian, from a woman of pure Venetian descent. Though I do know, from studying history, that the spice market thrived in Venice as far back as the thirteenth century. I imagine some of my African relatives made their way to Italy with cardamom and cinnamon and anise. So you might say my people have a long history with the Venetians.”
“That’s a lovely story.”
“I can’t change my color, Mrs. Oldfield. And once you taste this sauce, you will not want to alter one ingredient. No one ever rejected Madame Curie’s radium because she was French.”
“True.”
“Villa Hortensia is not about a face on a label, it’s about the flavor in the jar. And I’m ready to work to bottle this product just right, put it in stores, and sell it all over the country.”
“You are not young, Mrs. Mooney.”
“There’s not much I can do about that either. It took me a lifetime to get here. I can’t apologize for that, and I shouldn’t be penalized for taking the long road to success. There’s no sell-by date on the American dream. Well, not on mine anyway. But if you’re concerned about my age, why don’t we rely on the wisdom of your husband? He left the company to you.”
“He trusted me.”
“He’d have to do more than trust you. He must have thought you had a brain and the skills to run a corporation.”
“He did.”
“And you weren’t young when you took over, were you?”
“Hardly.”
“So let’s put my wisdom in the plus column, shall we?”
“We could, Mrs. Mooney.”
“Have you had lunch, Mrs. Oldfield?”
“I haven’t.”
“May I make you lunch?”
“Perhaps another day.” Edna forced a smile. “I have an important meeting at the office this afternoon. I am handing the reins of the company over to my son, and there is a lot of work to be done before that can happen.”
“I just need enough time for water to boil.”
“It’s not a good day.” Edna Oldfield stood. The butler opened the doors to the library to see Hortense to the door.
Hortense stood. “Mrs. Oldfield, I took three buses to get here today. And I don’t want to tell you about the road to get to those three buses. You were kind to see me and you owe me nothing. However, if I were in your position, I would taste the sauce, if only to stay current. You want to look good to your son when you hand him the company. You want him in the best possible position when the news breaks and that stock market reacts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I have three more meetings scheduled, the next one at the Campbell Soup Company. That’s right. You’ve heard of them. The Dorrance family. They live right over the hill due west. One stop on the bus. And they want to get into the Italian food business because they like the numbers they see coming off Chef Boyardee. I’m sure you’ve seen the profit margins yourself. Now, those numbers could be yours with Villa Hortensia. I’m not asking for much, Mrs. Oldfield—just twenty minutes to convince you, taste it for yourself before it’s too late. Once you sample my sauce, I guarantee you will want to get into business with the person that will take you into that market share, Italian style. Now, may I fix you a dish of macaroni?”
Edna exhaled. “All right, Mrs. Mooney.”
“Thank you kindly.” Hortense turned to the butler. “Now, which way to the kitchen?”