Frankie gazed around her studio apartment and sighed. She didn’t know how long she wanted to be a prisoner to her rent. The studio was spacious for a New York flat. At $2,500 a month, the 480-square-foot space seemed like a bargain, especially in her Gramercy Park neighborhood. It was a prewar building with high ceilings. The entrance area had a large closet and two three-foot-high half walls that separated it from the living room. It was large enough for a desk and a bookshelf. A small but separate galley kitchen was situated on the right of the living room, and a dressing-room area was adjacent to the bathroom on the left. Beyond the living room was a platform with two wrought-iron railings that served as her bedroom area. A large lead-glass casement window filled the back wall above the bed.
The bad thing was the view. There wasn’t one, except for the huge exhaust fan from the building behind hers. Making the most of it, Frankie kept the window shades down and put plants on the windowsill. Fake plants because nothing would be able to grow. She had carefully placed can lights in the corners and behind the sofa to give the space enough ambient light to compensate for the lack of real sunlight. It was a comfortable place, but after several years, she felt as if the walls were closing in. Finding something bigger would cost a fortune, and rentals were at a premium, even after Covid-19. The mass exodus hadn’t lasted long, and things had started to return to normal. Whatever the new normal was.
The city seemed to have gotten out of control, with homelessness at a fifteen-year high, crime on the rise, and the streets looking rather filthy to her. Maybe it was her age, but the thrill of living in the city was waning. Many of her friends were married with kids and had moved to Long Island or Jersey. Sitting around her coffee table with her friends, drinking wine and pooling money for pizza, was a thing of the past. Everyone seemed to have moved on except her. Her career was her consolation. But her weekends were empty.
She looked over at her cat, Bandit. “Wouldn’t you like to have a window where you can watch birds?” He stretched and yawned. “I guess you don’t know what you’re missing.” She reached down and pulled him up on her lap and scratched him under his chin. She pushed the pile of brochures to the side of the coffee table and reached for the folder of take-out menus. “So, what shall it be tonight? Chinese, Italian, Indian?” Bandit gave her another indifferent yawn. “Did you say you were in the mood for some manicotti? With a side of broccoli rabe?” Bandit stretched again, inviting more chin scratching. “Or do you want something a little more exotic?” Frankie smiled down at her companion. “No? Italian? OK. Italian it is then!” Bandit rolled over in agreement. Frankie hit the speed dial for her favorite local Italian café.
“Marco? Buonasera! Frankie here.” She paused. “I’m well, thank you. How is Anita doing?” Frankie listened as Marco brought her up to date on Anita’s pregnancy. “A girl? How wonderful. Have you decided on a name yet?” Frankie was happy for the couple. They were the first people she had met when she moved into the neighborhood. They had an upscale but cozy place around the corner from the Flatiron Building. The aroma of garlic in the air reminded Frankie of her uncle’s place, Ilvento’s, in West End at the Jersey Shore. Just like her aunt and uncle, Marco and Anita lived in one of the apartments above the restaurant. Frankie recalled the history of the family and Marco’s Ristorante, the place she called her “second home.”
Marco’s granduncle Marco, for whom he was named, had purchased the building in 1962 when the neighborhood was on the brink of either collapse or revival.
The original intention was for the elder Marco’s two brothers to follow him to America, but only one had. Marco’s grandfather had an excellent job working as the sous chef in the kitchen of a five-star hotel, and his wife had just given birth to Marco’s father. The plan was for him to eventually join his two brothers in America. But as his family grew, he chose to stay in Italy.
When Marco’s surviving granduncle passed in 2000, Marco’s father had to decide what to do with the family’s real estate in America. He hadn’t been to the States since he was a child and remembered that it wasn’t a particularly fancy neighborhood. But when he arrived in New York City, he was impressed with the way the neighborhood had flourished. Over several decades, it had become a center for designer shops, cosmetic boutiques, offices, and upscale restaurants that catered to the business clientele.
Marco’s father decided this was where he was going to raise his family. He had a wife, Rosevita, and two sons—Marco, fifteen, and Giovanni, thirteen. When the family arrived from Italy, owning real estate in America was a dream.
Marco and his brother spent their teens living above the restaurant his father had inherited, and the young men spent the time they weren’t in school helping at the restaurant. Both Marco and Giovanni went to school for restaurant management and continued the family tradition after their father retired and moved back to Italy.
Marco met Anita when she came into the restaurant for a business lunch. They were both in their late twenties at the time. Both were fiercely determined to have a career. They fell in love and married, but both maintained their goals. Anita was a special-education teacher. She felt the city needed people like her more than ever. Marco and Anita were around Frankie’s age, in their midthirties. They were on their second child, with their first about to turn three. They had been married for several years but had postponed having children until they were comfortable that the restaurant was a financial success. And indeed it was.
Normally, one had to make a reservation, but when it came to Frankie, they always had a table for her, so it wasn’t surprising she was a regular customer. Not only did she feel safe and at home, it brought back many wonderful memories of her childhood, especially of Sunday mornings, as her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Millie were beginning the Sunday-dinner ritual. While most kids would wake up to the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen, Frankie woke up to the smell of meatballs. She would hurry downstairs to nab a few before they were put into the gravy. She smiled to herself, thinking about gravy versus sauce. Gravy had a combination of meat such as sausage, braciola, and meatballs in the tomato sauce. Sauce was tomatoes with seasoning and herbs. Some would argue that it depended on what part of Italy you came from. Unless you were talking about brown gravy, as far as Frankie was concerned, gravy was gravy. Sauce was sauce.
Frankie loved to cook, but most New York apartment kitchens were minuscule, including the refrigerators. She joked that it was a conspiracy between apartment owners and restaurants. If there was no room to cook, you had no choice but to go out or take in. Every once in a while, if Marco’s wasn’t busy, he would bring her in the kitchen and show her a new recipe. She would frown at her thoughts about not having someone to share it with.
She spotted the brochure for their cruise and smiled. Maybe, just maybe, she would have someone who would appreciate a good home-cooked meal. Frankie knew that the only person responsible for her happiness was herself. And she was a happy person. But some human companionship would be fine with her. Provided it was someone she liked. She smirked at the thought.
Marco snapped her out of her daydream. He had been prattling on about the nursery and picking out the paint, and she had drifted off thinking about families and how much she missed the days of growing up with so many people around.