“You’re back. Where did you go? You missed Christmas. I have a new doll. She has red hair. And you missed my birthday. Mamma made me pear cake. I like pears. Do you?” She scrambled down from the tree.
“I went home to New York,” I said. “And I’m sorry I missed your birthday. I love pears.” My Italian felt rusty, but she nodded, satisfied.
“Is your mamma home?” I’d sent Donata a letter as soon as I’d gotten out of the hospital, sketchily explaining my three-month disappearance. I wondered what she’d thought.
“She’s making risotto.” The memory of the first time I’d seen Donata cook risotto came back to me. Sebastiano must be walking by now. As if to prove me right, the back door to the garden opened, emitting an unsteady but determined Sebastiano, who squealed with pleasure at his escape and toddled toward me.
“Sebastiano, caro, vieni!” Donata’s head appeared in the doorway, following her voice.
“Beatrice! What a pleasure.”
It had been a long time since I’d heard my name out loud in Italian. Donata’s face was flushed from the heat of the stove, and tendrils of golden hair escaped from a loose bun at the base of her neck. Even in a faded flowered housedress she looked like an angel.
“I didn’t know you were back.”
“I got in last night, too late to say hello.”
“Come for lunch,” she said. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
Risotto in December is very different from risotto in July in a place where the seasons get the respect they deserve. In Italy winter is dried mushroom time, and I walked into the Guerrini kitchen to the intense aroma of porcini. The family welcomed me without any questions, letting me eat before I talked. I was hungrier than I’d been in weeks. When I helped myself to thirds, Ilario, who’d only had seconds, laughed.
“Do they starve you in New York City? Or is the food not worth eating?”
“Nothing like this.” The creamy rice, the glass of Montalcino red, the astringent bitterness of the arugula salad dressed sparingly with olive oil, lemon juice, and salt, all combined to make a heavenly meal. Maybe I’ll be all right now that I’m back in Italy, I thought; it doesn’t have to be medieval. But I wondered.
After lunch, Felice and Gianni reluctantly cleared the dishes, then disappeared upstairs to play with their new holiday toys. Donata and I washed up, and Ilario retreated into the bedroom with Sebastiano. When I peered into the room a few minutes later they were both asleep, son blissfully splayed out on his father’s slowly rising and falling chest.
“Now tell me the whole story, Beatrice,” Donata said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and pulling out two chairs for us. I took my time settling, needing a few moments to strategize.
“I went to Sicily, for research. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going; things happened more quickly than I’d expected.” Still true, if deceptively so.
“A spur-of-the-moment trip to Sicily sounds very adventurous. Your research must have been successful, to keep you there so long.”
“Well, I met someone.” When you have to lie, use the available facts.
“How romantic—in Sicily?”
“We ended up in Messina. My work got a little derailed while I was there. He’s from Siena though.”
“Cara Beatrice, how fairy-tale marvelous that sounds. Was it?”
“It was until I got sick.”
“So you said in your letter.” She paused expectantly. I didn’t answer right away, and the silence grew uncomfortable. “Nothing from him, I hope?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” I laughed with relief. She’d thought I had some rip-roaring sexually transmitted disease. “Donata, I need coffee. Can I make some for us?” I needed alcohol more than caffeine to tell this story, but the preparation would buy me more time than pouring a glass of San Rafaele.
“No, no, sit, cara. I’ll do it.” I loved the way she called me “cara.” When Donata says “dear” she really means it. She made espresso and we both sipped in appreciative silence for a while.
“Now that you have your coffee, you must repay my hard work on lunch with the story.” She smiled encouragingly.
I took a deep breath. “Plague. I got the Plague.”
“Plague? How?”
“I was exposed somehow, then I was airlifted to New York. But I survived. Unscathed, I think.” I tried to smile but it came out feeling lopsided. My hands were shaking and I put my espresso cup down, but too hard—coffee spilled over the rim and onto the table. The mess shocked me. I’d made plenty of mistakes in my life but my hands rarely were the problem, fortunately for my patients. I looked up at Donata and saw her eyes fill with tears.
“Carissima Beatrice, how glad I am to have you safe with us again.” She rose suddenly from her chair and came to my side of the table, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I was so terribly worried about you, not hearing for months like that. I imagined the most awful things. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry.” What could I possibly say as an excuse—I couldn’t write to you because I was stuck in 1340s Siena? The difference between my story and the truth hung between us like a curtain. I pushed my chair away from the table and stood up next to her. Before I could figure out what to say, Donata wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my neck. She smelled like porcini mushrooms and coffee, and more faintly, lily of the valley perfume. I stiffened, startled by her sudden embrace, but then the sweetness of it overwhelmed me and I let myself soften in her arms. It had been forever since anyone had pushed past my physical restraint like that, and a wordless relief swept over me. But it was more than that. My ears were humming, my vision darkened, and then I felt Donata’s emotion firsthand—the affection, the fear of loss, the stark relief. It’s back, I thought with a stab of joy. It’s back, and so am I.
* * *