Сьюзен Виггс - Summer By The Sea

The reek of the burnt-out motor was a corruption here, in Mamma’s world. The smell of her baking ciambellone used to be so powerful it drew the neighbors in, and Rosa could remember the women in their aprons and scuffs, sitting on the back stoop, sharing coffee and Mamma’s citrusy ciambellone, fresh from the oven.

To this day, the sweet, dense bread was one of the signature brunch items at Celesta’s-by-the-Sea. Butch prepared the dough directly on the countertop with his bare hands, no bowls or spoons, just like Mamma had. Rosa appreciated Butch’s skill at cooking and his exquisite palate, but some subtle essence was missing; she could only put it down as magic. No one could capture that, though Rosa knew in some part of her heart that she would never stop trying.

She went out back to talk to her father. The yard had a long rectangular garden that had been laid out and planted by her mother before Rosa was born. Nowadays, her father tended the heirloom tomatoes, peppers, beans and herbs, happy to spend his silent hours in a place his young wife had loved.

He was seated on a wooden folding chair beneath a plum tree, smoking a pipe. A few branches lay around, casualties of the recent windstorm. He looked up when her shadow fell over him.

“Hi, Pop,” she said.

“Rosa.” He set aside the pipe, stood and held out his arms.

She smiled and hugged him, then gave him a kiss on the cheek, inhaling his familiar scent of shaving soap and pipe tobacco. When she stepped back, she made sure he was looking directly at her, and told him about the blender.

“I guess I forgot and left it on,” he said.

“The house could have burned down, Pop.”

“I’ll be careful from now on, okay?”

It was what he always said when Rosa worried about him. It didn’t help, but neither did arguing with him. She studied his face, noticing troubled shadows in his eyes, and knew it had nothing to do with the blender. “You heard about Mrs. Montgomery.”

“Yes. Of course. It was in all the papers.”

Pop had always been addicted to reading the newspapers, usually two a day. In fact, Rosa had learned to read while sitting in his lap, deciphering the funny pages.

He took her hand in his. He had wonderful hands, blunt and strong, callused from the work he did. His touch was always gentle, as though he feared she might break. “Let’s sit. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She joined him in the shade of the plum tree. He seemed…different today. Distracted and maybe diminished, somehow. “Are you all right, Pop?”

“I’m fine, fine.” He waved off her concern like batting at a fly.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost a client. In the forty years since he had emigrated from Italy, he’d worked for scores of families in the area. But today he seemed to be particularly melancholy.

“She was still so young,” Rosa commented.

“Yes.” A faraway look came into his eyes. “She was a bride when I first saw her, just a girl, younger than you.”

Rosa tried to picture Alex’s mother as a young bride, but the image eluded her. She realized Mrs. Montgomery must have been just thirty the first time Rosa had seen her. It seemed inconceivable. Emily Montgomery had always been ageless in her crisp tennis whites, her silky hair looped into a ponytail. She wore almost no jewelry, which Rosa later learned was characteristic of women from the oldest and wealthiest families. Ostentation was for the nouveau riche.

Mrs. Montgomery had lived in terror for her fragile son and had regarded Rosa as a danger to his health.

“I wonder how she died,” Rosa said to her father. “Did any of the obituaries say?”

“No. There was nothing.”

She watched a ladybug lumber over a blade of grass. “Are you going to the service, or—”

“No, of course not. It is not expected. She doesn’t need the gardener. And if I sent flowers, well, they would just get lost.”

Rosa got up, pacing in agitation. She walked over to the tomato bushes, the centerpiece of the spectacular garden plot. In her mind’s eye, she could see her mother in a house dress that somehow looked pretty on her, a green-sprigged apron, bleached Keds with no socks, a straw hat to keep the sun from her eyes. Mamma never hurried in the garden, and she used all her senses while tending it. She would hold a tomato in the palm of her hand, determining its ripeness by its softness and heft. Or she would inhale the fragrance of pepperoncini or bell peppers, test a pinch of flat leaf parsley or mint between her teeth. Everything had to be at its peak before Mamma brought it to the kitchen.

Rosa bent and plucked a stalk of dockweed from the soil. She straightened, turned to find her father watching her, and she smiled. His hearing loss broke her heart, but it had also brought them closer. Of necessity, he had become incredibly attentive, watching her, reading every nuance of movement and expression with uncanny accuracy. His skill at reading lips was remarkable.

And he knew her so well, she thought, her smile wobbling. “Alex came by the restaurant last night.”

Pop’s eyebrows lowered, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. Years ago, he had thought Alex a poor match for her, and his opinion probably hadn’t changed.

“He didn’t say a word about his mother,” she continued. That was when she felt a twist of pain. He’d been drinking last night because he was hurting. Surely his friends must’ve realized that. Why had they simply left him? Why didn’t he have better friends? Why did it matter to her?

“Well.” Pop slapped his thighs and stood up. “I must go to work. The Camdens are having a croquet party and they need their hedges trimmed.”

Rosa removed his flat black cap and kissed his balding head. “You come up to the restaurant tonight. Butch is fixing bluefish for the special.”

“I’m gonna get fat, I keep eating at your place all the time.”

She gave his arm a playful punch. “See you, Pop.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She stepped through the gate and turned to wave. The expression on his face startled her. “Pop, you sure you’re doing all right?”

Instead of replying to her question, he said, “You shouldn’t mess with that guy, just because he came back.”

“Who says I’m messing with him?”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Rosa.”

“Don’t worry about me, Pop. I’m a big girl now.”

“I always worry about you. Why else am I still here on this earth?”

She touched her hand to her heart and then raised it to sign I love you.

He’d learned American Sign Language after losing his hearing in the accident, but rarely used it. Signing in public still made him feel self-conscious. But they weren’t in public now, so he signed back. I love you more.

As she pulled away from the curb, she let her father’s warning play over and over in her head. You shouldn’t mess with that guy, just because he came back.

“Right, Pop,” she said, then turned onto Ocean Road, heading toward the Montgomery place.

Ciambellone

Ciambellone is a cross between a cake and a bread, with a nice texture well suited to be served at breakfast or with coffee. The smell of a baking ciambellone is said to turn a scowl into a smile.

4 cups flour

3 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup sugar

1 cup milk

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ cup oil

1 teaspoon baking powder

zest from 1 lemon, finely chopped

garnish: milk, coarsely granulated sugar

Make a mound with the flour on a board, creating a well in the center. Using your fingers, begin alternating the liquid and other dry ingredients into the well, mixing until all the ingredients are combined, adding additional flour as needed and kneading to make a smooth dough. Divide into 2 parts and shape into fat rings. Brush the tops with milk and sprinkle with sugar. Place the coils on a buttered baking sheet and bake at 350° F for about 40 minutes or until golden brown.

When she made a salad, Mamma used only the most tender hearts and cores of the lettuce. She tossed everything in a bowl so big and wide, a small child could sit in it. That’s the secret of a great salad. Give yourself plenty of space to toss. You always need more room than you think you need.

Romaine and Gorgonzola Salad

Wash two heads of romaine lettuce in cold water, discarding the tough outer leaves. Shake dry and tear into bite-sized pieces. Add basil sprigs and cherry tomatoes, cut in half. Right before serving, toss the lettuce with Gorgonzola vinaigrette.

Gorgonzola Vinaigrette

¼ cup white wine vinegar + ¼ cup apple juice

1 Tablespoon minced shallots

2 Tablespoons mustard

2 teaspoons chopped basil

2 Tablespoons toasted pine nuts (pinones)

¼ cup walnut oil + 3 Tablespoons olive oil

2 Tablespoons crumbled Gorgonzola—preferably the aged variety from Monferrato

freshly ground black pepper

Put everything in a jar and shake well. Makes about 1 cup. Store in the fridge for up to 5 days.

Summer 1983

When Rosa Capoletti was nine years old, she learned two important lessons. One: after your mother dies, you should still remember to talk to her every day. And two: never put up a rope swing in a tree containing a beehive.

Of course, she wasn’t aware of the hive when she coiled a stout rope around her shoulder and shinned up the trunk of a venerable elm tree by the pond in the Montgomerys’ garden. The pond was stocked with rare fish from Japan and water lilies from Costa Rica, and had a burbling fountain. Pop had told Rosa she should never bother the fish. The pond was Mrs. Montgomery’s pride and joy, and under no circumstances must it be disturbed.

Pop had told her to stay out of trouble. He was going to the plant nursery with Mrs. Montgomery and Rosa was not to leave the yard. That was fine with her, because it was a perfect summer day, third grade was behind her and she had nothing but lazy days ahead. When Mamma was alive, Rosa used to help her in the kitchen garden at home. Mamma’s tomatoes and basil were so good they won prizes, and she always made Rosa wear a straw hat with a brim, tied on with a polka dot scarf. She said too much sun was bad for the skin.

Since Mamma died and the boys went into the navy, there was no one to look after Rosa once school let out for summer, so she went to work with Pop each day. The nuns from school urged Rosa’s father to send her to a Catholic summer camp. Rosa had begged to stay home, promising Pop she’d stay out of the way.

Going to work with her father turned out to be the only thing that kept Rosa from shriveling up with sadness over Mamma. He used to be a familiar sight around the area, going from place to place on his sturdy yellow bicycle. Now they drove together in the old Dodge Power Wagon, with all his gardening tools in the back. During the summer, he worked from dawn to dusk at six places—one for each day of the week—mowing, pruning, digging and clipping the yards and gardens of the vast seaside estates that fringed the shoreline.

This was Rosa’s first visit to the Montgomery place, a giant barge of a house with a railed porch on three sides and tall, narrow windows with glass so old it was wavy. She found all sorts of things to explore in the huge, lush yard that extended out to touch an isolated stretch of beach. Still, she was bored. She wanted to go to the beach, to take the little dinghy out, to go on adventures with her friends. But she was stuck here.

Spending the afternoon alone would be a lot more fun now that she had a rope swing, she thought, sticking one bare foot in the bottom loop and pushing off. She laughed aloud and started singing “Stray Cat Strut,” which played on the radio at least once a day. She didn’t really know what a “feline Casanova” was, but it was a good tune, and her big brother Sal had taught her all the words before he left.