“Yep, you told me a million times,” she muttered under her breath.
I hated the disappointment that cut through me. Rationally, I knew this was a difficult age, but my patience was beginning to wear thin. “Okay, you can lose the attitude. I’m only trying to help. Summer is a month away and all the good jobs and opportunities will be gone.”
“I don’t want to be a lawyer, okay? I actually wanted to talk to you about something. A different plan for the summer.”
I perked up, relieved that at least she’d been thinking about it. I couldn’t have her hanging around with endless free time while I worked nonstop. I definitely planned on taking a few long weekends with her, maybe at the Jersey Shore, but she needed to have some responsibility at this point. “What is it?”
She hesitated and shook her head when I pulled into my mother’s driveway. “I’ll tell you tonight after dinner.”
“Oh, I’m intrigued.”
She jumped out of the car without another word, and I clamped down on another sigh. When I walked inside, Allegra had already settled into the kitchen, chattering with my mother with an enthusiasm I never got to see. I felt bad about the sharp zing of resentment but buried it quickly. Of course she wouldn’t have any issues with her grandmother. Mom had watched her regularly since she was young and loved being involved in every detail of her life. She also spoiled her rotten, I reminded myself.
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her, kissing her on the cheek. She wore a bright-red floral apron and matching lipstick and smelled of sugar and lemons. Her hug was extra-tight and the flare of guilt hit again. I had to be better. Yes, I got frustrated with the constant judgments, but I was sure she was lonely without Dad. After I scored this account, I was slowing down. “Smells good.”
“Nonni, can I do the mashed potatoes?”
“Of course—they’re already peeled. The fresh chives are in the herb drawer.” She wiped her hands on a faded towel and smiled. I noticed the lines around her eyes had deepened, and she looked more tired than usual. “How are you today? Here, take some bread. Do you want some wine?”
My mother fussed about, putting out thick slices of Italian bread and pouring a glass of Bolla. I was used to it and let her do it without protest. First, it was nice feeling taken care of, and she’d told me numerous times she enjoyed feeding me, bringing back all the years of Sunday dinners spent at the table with my father, playing cards and Scrabble while the football or baseball game blared on the television. She’d been disappointed in my complete rejection of cooking—no matter how many times she tried to teach me, I hated it. At least Allegra seemed to bloom under her instruction. I sipped my wine and watched my daughter doctor the potatoes with an expert ease, moving around the kitchen with my mother like a trained dancer. Funny, she never wanted to cook at home or experiment with meals. It seemed the act of cooking gave her a sense of excitement only here.
“How’s the new account going?” my mother asked, peeking at the turkey and basting it a few more times while she watched the juices drip down the crispy skin.
“I pitch next week. If I get it, the brand has the potential to go national and bring in some bigger clients. It can change everything.”
She frowned, but she was focused on the meat, slicing off a piece and giving it a taste test. “I thought F&F was already profitable. You were written up in that magazine. Allegra, taste this, does it need more salt?”
“Yes, but even though the company’s grown, it only takes a few lost accounts to crash back down. I’m always looking to increase the company’s profits, Mom. Growth is everything, and one mistake can be critical with all the competition in this market.”
“It’s good,” Allegra said, nodding. My mother’s face lit up, and she powered up the electric knife, expertly slicing thick white pieces and separating the dark. The mixer roared, pausing only so Allegra could swipe a taste, her face screwed up in concentration as she sifted through the flavors on her tongue to decide if it was good enough. I watched them focus on their tasks with a strange sort of distance, feeling oddly out of place as I drank my wine and relaxed at the table, talking of a world they didn’t seem to care about. The longing for my dad cut deep. He knew the sacrifices it took to maintain a successful business.
Sure, he’d been gone a lot, but when he was with us, his focus was complete. He’d play tickle monster and read endless books and take me out for ice cream. I remembered lingering for hours at the dinner table, watching him drink little cups of black espresso and talking about fascinating subjects. He’d taught me so much about the ins and outs of running a business: how to figure out invaluable information by reading a person and their tells; how to redirect a dialogue and create trust; how to upsell once the client was hooked. Without some type of connection, failure was imminent. I’d soaked up his lessons and vowed to be just like him one day.
And I was.
After he died, we’d been able to sell the business to his partner and set Mom up with a nice cushion, especially since she had no social security. He’d done everything to take care of his family. Had he experienced the same distance with my mom when he spoke about work?
I’d never know.
Soon, all the food was prepped and on the table. We passed around bowls of fresh peas, potatoes, turkey, and cranberry sauce. I’d avoided the bread—always ruthless with limiting carbs—but took a healthy portion of Allegra’s potatoes, surprised at the creamy texture and flavor, which were restaurant quality. “Honey, these are really good,” I said. My daughter’s flushed cheeks were an even bigger surprise, and she ducked her head quickly as if hiding her pleasure at my comment. My heart squeezed. Had I not been acknowledging her enough? I always told her she was smart and could do anything she put her mind to, but she usually rolled her eyes or made some snide comment that cut off my praise.
“Thanks. Nonni knows all the tricks. She’s teaching me how to make lasagna next.”
My mother laughed. “That will be easy compared to the Easter pie. Remember that fiasco?”
My daughter laughed with her. “That was harder than a Regents test! Mom, have you ever made it before?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t get her into the kitchen unless I bribed her,” Mom said with a snort.
“It’s insane! There’s like a thousand steps, and four kinds of meat, and the layering process is a math equation.”
“But worth it, right?” Mom asked.
“So worth it. I wish we could make them year-round instead of only at Easter,” Allegra said.
“Are you kidding? After I make even one of those I need a nap.”
I smiled, enjoying the pleasure on their faces, even as the tiny bite of jealousy at their closeness reared up. I smothered it quickly, embarrassed. I was thrilled Allegra loved her grandmother so much, especially since she never got to spend time with Dad.