Hortense Mooney used her sense of taste, her talent for cooking, her affinity for the Italian people, and her love of tomatoes to create a product people would buy. Tomatoes were life. They were delicious, and they grew in abundance. They were equally the fruit of kings and peasants. They were lovely to look at, rich in color, and round in form. Hortense learned to appreciate every aspect of the simple tomato: its firm skin, meaty pulp, and even the element she would discard, the translucent seeds in the grooves of the pith, which reminded her of precious pearls.
The new entrepreneur took advice. She had listened to Minna, trusted her, and that cleared the path for her to trust her own instincts. Never once did Hortense look back and question how long it had taken her to reach her goal, or second-guess her competence, or count herself out because of her age or her color or her bank account when her purpose was finally revealed. She believed in the excellence of her product, and that made her believe in herself. She could not fail.
Hortense hadn’t dreamed of making spaghetti sauce all her life, but she accepted that Americans had a need for it now. Destiny reveals itself when need and desire merge in the moment. The world had changed since the war; when the boys returned home from Europe, they were all a little Italian, it seemed. Women were cutting their hair short: the Italian cut was all the rage in the women’s magazines. The airwaves were full of the music of Vic Damone, Perry Como, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Prima. Fellini, Visconti, and Rossellini were making movies, the Agnellis made cars, the Ferragamos shoes—and all were popular with Americans. Franco Scalamandré was decorating the White House with his handwoven silk fabrics, and the Italian pope, the head of the Holy Roman Church, was planning his first visit to America. Hortense had spotted a trend, before it became one, and she would have the macaroni and gravy ready per tutti.
Bottled Italian tomato sauce.
Authentic recipe in the Venetian style!
Villa Hortensia would be on shelves long after she was gone, she believed, and like a good book, it would find a new and hungry audience as the years rolled on—those who appreciated the ripened tomatoes made sweet by slow simmering with garlic, hearts of celery, one carrot, onions, a touch of butter, olive oil, and the secret ingredient. The sauce would save women time and bring immediate joy to the family table. Easing a woman’s burden was as important to Hortense as making a top-shelf item. A profitable business venture needed to have a touch of goodness to it, or so Hortense believed. Making a housewife’s meal preparation a breeze was Hortense’s idea of God’s work.
The telegram from Edna Oldfield that arrived that day would be framed, and when the time came, it would be buried with Hortense Mooney.
*
Hortense took off her hat and gloves, placing them on the bench in the foyer of 34 Charlotte Street, where she had lived with her husband and daughters for almost forty years. She took a deep breath and looked around the dark house before opening her purse and removing the telegram in its envelope.
The wallpaper she had hung herself looked outdated; the yellow roses climbing up the gray trellis seemed from another era. Hortense thought she would have to do something about that, now that everything in her life was about to change for the better. She flipped on the lamp in the living room on her way to the kitchen. There was already a light on in the kitchen, so she knew Louis was home.
“I’m making eggs. You want some?” Louis asked her as he stood at the stove.
“I had half a sandwich at three.”
“All right.” Louis flipped his eggs in the pan, and his toast popped up in the electric toaster. Hortense moved to help. “I got it,” he said.
Louis prepared his plate and placed it on the table. “There wasn’t anything in the icebox for me. So I went ahead and made myself something.” He sat down.
“I’ve been busy with the sauce.”
“It’s your life and your lover. Takes all your time.”
“I know. You’ve been so patient.” She sat down across from her husband at the kitchen table. “I got news today.”
“Palazzini gave you a raise?”
“No. I quit.”
“Why’d you do that?”
Hortense unfolded the telegram and handed it to Louis. He wiped his hands on the napkin before taking it from her.
“You sold the sauce to the Oldfield company,” he said, handing the telegram back to her.
“I did. Villa Hortensia.” She nodded.
“Good. Good for you.”
“It’s for us, Louis.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
She watched as her husband angled the eggs onto the toast and took a bite. “We’re not in competition. We’re a team.”
“Whatever you say.” Louis chewed slowly.
“It’s not whatever I say. It’s what’s true. Now, what is true for you?”
“That we are what we are. We keep on living.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
“What choice do we have?”
“We have all the choice in the world. We have opportunities. We can grow. We can change.”
“If I didn’t know you were a teetotaler Baptist, I’d think you were drunk.”
“I need to confess. I’m not exactly a teetotaler. I like a glass of wine from time to time.”
“Good to know, Hortense.”
“But I’ve not had any today. I’m as clear as I can be. We can create anything in this life, Louis. We can be whatever we want to be. Have what we want. It’s all there for us. For you.”
“You’ve lost your mind. What opportunities are out there for me? What opportunities have there ever been?”
“We can make things, Louis. I proved that with the sauce.”
“Nobody ever wanted anything I made. All I ever did was clean up after people and the messes they made. I had ideas, but nothing would come of a colored man’s ideas because a white man always had a better one. And if he didn’t, he just took mine.”
“Until now.”
“For you.”
“For us. Are you proud of the sauce?”
“It’s yours. I’m just standing behind you as I always have. That’s the world I live in.”
“We stand together. At least, that’s how I saw it. You worked hard. You’re a deacon in the church. You’re an important man.”
“I don’t need to go through all of this with you.”
“I’m your wife.”
“That doesn’t make you right.”
“Oh, Louis. It’s fine with you for us to just keep going on the way we have been, isn’t it?”
“Marriage lasts until death. It’s in the Bible,” Louis said with conviction.
“Somewhere in there it also says that He came so you would have life and have it more abundantly. Well, what we’ve been living is famine. Lack. This isn’t working, Louis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know everything. I saw you with the widow.”
“I had a church meeting.” He shrugged.
“There was no congregation, Louis. Just a kiss on the street corner. But let’s put that aside, because it’s not the reason for what I’m about to do. It’s just another fact in a long line of them that adds up to your truth and mine.”
“Hortense . . .”
“Louis, let me talk. I have tried for over forty years to make you understand that you are worthy. I even dressed you. I bought you an Italian suit, I pressed a cotton shirt with French cuffs. I bought you a silk tie, made in England and sold at Wanamaker’s. Couldn’t afford it, so I put it on lay-away. Took me seventeen months to pay for it. You remember that, don’t you? I saved up and bought you a car so you might drive down the street and feel like somebody.”