Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [62]
“Richard,” my father exclaims, with an air of forced joviality, as if he had rehearsed a certain script but has suddenly found himself forced to ad-lib. “How nice to see you!” He strides a couple of steps toward him and offers his hand, which Richard takes and shakes. The woman, now standing behind him, softly clears her throat.
“Oh, forgive me. I’ve brought someone along, a fan of pizza rustica and well, in fact, of all things Italian. Mira, Richard, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Miss Fiona O’Hare.”
Fiona smiles sweetly. “Richard, I’ve had the pleasure of shopping in your lovely store, but we’ve never been formally introduced.” As she extends her hand, first to me and then to Richard, we can’t help but notice that her two-inch nails are painted, what else? Flame.
chapter 14
Fiona, it turns out, is a picky eater, making my father’s comment about her being a lover of things Italian either inaccurate or, given my father’s Tuscan ancestry, vaguely creepy. Take your pick. She pokes around at the pizza rustica, saying that she thought we were having pizza. When I bring out the salad, she asks for more dressing and seems totally flummoxed when I bring out the oil and vinegar—surprised, I imagine, to find that it didn’t come out of a prepackaged bottle made by Kraft and featuring the word zesty.
Richard, bless him, makes it easier.
“So,” he asks, “how did you two meet?” Fiona looks to my father, who is busy pouring himself another glass of wine, leaving Fiona to field the question.
“Well,” she says demurely, “we’ve known each other for years, but it wasn’t until I signed up for an Italian conversation course that we actually got to know each other socially.” She looks over and smiles at my father, whose lips twitch in response.
“Fiona’s a secretary in the chemistry department,” he says, without looking at her. “We have been passing each other in the Science Hall for years.”
“Che bello! Che interessante! Ci sei mai andata?” I ask.
“What, dear?” she asks, leaning toward me and brushing aside a lacquered curl.
“To Italy,” I repeat, this time in English. “Have you ever been there?”
“Me? Oh, my goodness, no.” She laughs as if I’ve just said something incredibly amusing. “But last year for my birthday, my sons sent me to the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas, and ever since then I’ve wanted to go and ride a real gondola. Came home and signed up for Italian lessons with the money I won playing keno. Have you ever been there?”
I look at her and then at my father. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I lived in Italy for several years,” I say, thinking it funny that my father wouldn’t have mentioned it.
“Oh, I know you lived in Italy, but have you ever been to Las Vegas?”
When I tell her no, she says, “Too bad. If you had you could tell me how the Grand Canal in the Venetian compares to the one in Italy. In case I never get there,” she sighs.
After lunch, Fiona offers to help clean up. I make the espresso while I watch Fiona empty the dishwasher. I can’t help but notice that she seems to know where everything goes. While we work, Fiona chatters on about the various trips she has taken. “Isn’t it terrible what has happened to the airline industry since 9/11?” she asks, pausing before adjusting the Cling Wrap over the leftover salad. “When I flew to Las Vegas, they confiscated my knitting needles right out of my purse! What a nuisance. Speaking of knitting, maybe I’ll knit that precious Chloe a little something. It will be fun to have someone to knit for. I have only one grandchild, who I hardly ever see,” she says, her mouth set in a hard line. I’m about to ask her why, but perhaps anticipating my question she says, “Families are complicated.” This strikes me as the most insightful thing anyone has said all afternoon.
Later, after Dad leaves to take Fiona home, Richard tells me I should be ashamed