Season of Salt and Honey (12 page)

“Throw cushions,” Vincenzo mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

Aunty Connie passes me her empty cup. “I think that's an overly optimistic assessment,
soru
. I am quite sure it is full of rats.”

“Oh, no, Aunty,” I say.

Aunty Connie gives me a withering glare. “At least Isabella is here with you.
Some
family. I wouldn't feel at all comfortable otherwise. Although . . .” She fixes her glare on Bella. “Francesca, poor girl, has been through enough without your . . . antics. You need to look after her. Can you do that?”

Bella blinks and looks at the ground. Even Vincenzo is staring at her.

“I don't need looking after,” I protest, but no one pays me any notice.

“
Sì, Zia
,” Bella promises softly.

“
Bonu
,” Aunty Connie replies.

“Good!” Aunty Rosa celebrates with a quick clap of her hands, then gets to her feet. “That settles it then. Thank you for the coffee, Francesca, it wasn't dreadful. Giuseppe, will you drive us home before your dinner plans? I have an appointment at the salon.”

“It was a long drive out here, you know.” Aunty Connie gives me an accusatory look.

“I thought we might never get here,” Aunty Rosa agrees.

My protest dies before it even leaves my mouth, replaced by an apology. “
Mi scusassi
.”

Aunty Connie stands too, which is the cue for my father to join them. “We'll go back to town and Giuseppe will come back for this dinner with what's-her-name.”

“Merriem,” Bella says.

“Right. Miriam.”

The aunties leave the cabin and Vincenzo gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Two words: hot tub,” he whispers in my ear, then raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Total party pad.”

“Right. Thanks, Vinnie.”

“Anytime,” he replies, clicking his tongue.

Papa is the last to leave the cabin. He passes me the bag Aunty Rosa was carrying. “Rosa's biscotti are in there. Your favorites.”

I take the bag; it's heavier than it looks. Aunty Rosa makes the best
nzuddi
: small, round almond cookies rolled in sugar, each studded with a roasted almond and flavored with cinnamon and orange.

Papa hesitates.

“Go, Papa. I'm okay here. I'll see you tonight.”

He waits a little longer, the others now by the car, then lowers his voice. “I know about the Gardners not wanting you here.”

I swallow. “You do?”

He nods. “Daniel Gardner called in. Poor boy, he's having a difficult time. I haven't told the aunties. They wouldn't understand it. Throwing out a daughter like that.”

“Well, I'm not . . . I wasn't . . .” My throat tightens.

“It's not right,” he says, shaking his head. Then he seems to gather himself and pulls me into an embrace. “I will be back soon,
duci
.”

I nod. “I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, darling.”

I stand in the cabin doorway, watching them all getting into the car.

Aunty Connie turns to Bella, who is leaning in the car window. “This Miriam . . . Is she Jewish?”

I see Bella restrain a smirk.

The name for these cookies comes from the nuns of Monastero di San Vicenzo in Catania who invented them.
Nzuddi
is derived from the diminutive for the name Vincenzo—
vincinzuddu
or
'nzuddu—
and thus is the English equivalent of “Vinnies.” These are small and firm, not too sweet, cookies, perfect for serving with espresso.

Makes 30 to 35 cookies

7 ounces unsalted roasted almonds

1
²
/
₃
cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 cup superfine sugar

1 tablespoon finely grated orange zest

2 eggs

Juice of
¹
/
₂
lemon

2 teaspoons baking powder

TO DECORATE:

³
/
₄
cup superfine sugar

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

30 to 35 unsalted roasted almonds (about 4 ounces)

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a food processor chop almonds until finely ground. Sift the flour and cinnamon into a large bowl, then add the almonds, sugar, and orange zest. Mix well before turning out onto a counter and making a well in the center. Break the eggs into the well, beat lightly with a fork, then add the lemon juice and baking powder. Continue mixing all the ingredients together with a fork until thick and slightly sticky.

To decorate, combine the superfine sugar and cinnamon in a flat-bottomed bowl. Roll a teaspoon of dough into a small ball, then roll in the cinnamon sugar. Place the balls on the prepared baking sheet. Press a whole roasted almond into each ball, pressing down lightly. Repeat with remaining dough (if you run out of sugar and cinnamon simply mix up some more).

Bake until the
nzuddi
are light golden brown, about 15 minutes.

Allow to cool completely before serving. They will keep in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.

• • • •

I
n the afternoon, when Bella has left to buy wine for dinner, the mystery girl reappears. She's standing by the Adirondack chairs, holding a brown paper bag. Her lips are pressed together, as though she's bracing herself, but when she sees me she forces a smile.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi. Summer,” she explains awkwardly.

“Summer Harrison. I remember.”

She looks different today. She's still wearing the hat but her hair is different, fluffy, like she just brushed it.

She pauses before holding up the bag. “I brought you this.”

I step over to her. The bag is heavier than it looks. I unroll the top and peer inside. Bread. Dark, round loaves, a sourdough freckled with something, maybe rosemary, a couple of sugared doughnuts.

“I'm going to Merriem's tonight,” she says. “I thought I'd drop by and . . . I work at the . . . My brother owns the bakery. Flourfarm.”

I glance at her. Her cheeks are pink. She tries that smile again.

“In Edison?” I ask. I remember lines at the place Alex called “the new bakery.” We didn't usually stop in Edison on the rare
occasions we came to the cabin together. Alex didn't like lines, and he was always in a rush to get here, to get to the ocean.

“Yeah. My brother and his wife, Ines, own it.”

“It's supposed to be good,” I say.

“It is. Rocky found his thing, his calling. Rocky's my brother.” She pauses. “Actually Beacon's his name, but everyone calls him Rocky.”

“Like Beacon Rock?”

“Yeah. Um, exactly like Beacon Rock. My mom . . . I think Rocky was . . .” Summer gives a funny frown. “Conceived there. Something like that.”

We both smile.

“Not too many people know that,” she confesses.

“If I meet him I'll just call him Rocky.”

“Thanks.”

We both look at the chairs but don't sit in them. Summer seems to be hesitating, for what reason I don't know.

“You didn't need to bring me anything,” I say.

“No. I mean, I know . . . but . . .” She presses her hands into her jeans pockets. “I wanted to say . . . sorry, I guess, for the other day.”

I think back to our meeting on the path. “Sorry for . . .?”

“I was a bit strange.”

“Oh. That's okay. I was too, probably. I've been strange a lot lately.”

She gives a small, grateful smile. I add, “I kept thinking that I knew you.”

She nods, but doesn't say anything.

“Do you want to sit down?” I offer.

“Thanks.”

We both sit, but Summer's on the edge of her chair. A whistle comes out of the forest, interrupting us, and we both look towards it. Huia is skipping in front of her father, who raises his hand to us both.

Huia high-fives Summer. I glance between the two of them.

“School out?” I say.

“Yup!” Huia replies happily.

“Hey, Summer. You guys met?” Jack says.

I nod. “Does everyone know each other around here?”

“Yup,” Huia answers for him.

Jack laughs and adds, “I know Rocky, Summer's brother, from paddle competitions. From before he went traveling and met Ines, that's his wife, in Portugal. I bought his old business when he decided to open the bakery. Rocky has always helped me out.” He turns to Summer. “Merriem said you're coming to dinner tonight too?”

Summer nods.

Huia notices the bag on my knees. “Did you bring doughnuts?” she asks Summer.

Summer nods her head at me. “For Frankie.”

Huia turns quickly and gives me a longing expression.

“Huia!” Jack says, shaking his head.

“It's okay. There's a lot of food in here. I think I need assistance.” I lift out a doughnut and break it in two, give one piece to Huia and one to Jack.

“Thank you,” they reply in unison.

“So much for me starving in the forest, huh?” I murmur.

Huia shakes her head. “Nope, nope, nope.” She's got sugar all around her mouth. Jack brushes it away with his thumb.

I lift out the other doughnut and split it in half like the first.

Summer shakes her head. “Oh, no, they're yours. I brought them for you.”

“It's okay,” I say, holding out the half. “I can share.”

Summer stares at me and blinks. Her eyes are small and round and that odd blue-gray, like a winter sky. Her expression is strange. Sad. I remember Jack saying “surfing in Portugal” and a memory pops into my mind. A couple coming into the café Alex and I always went to; Alex introducing them to me. The guy, Travis, I'd met before, but not the girlfriend. Her hair was shorter then, and in braids.

“Summer . . .” I say.

She accepts the half doughnut from me. “Thank you.”

“Summer and Travis.”

She lifts her head quickly.

“I remember now. I do know you. We met . . .”

She nods. “At Marmalade. Yes.”

“Sorry, I'd forgotten.”

“It's okay,” she says softly.

“Travis surfed with Alex.”

“Yes.” She seems to wince.

“Your hair was . . .” I gesture loosely with my fingers around my head.

“Yes. And . . .” She hesitates. “Me too.”

“You . . .?”

“I surfed. With Alex. Too.”

She's still holding the doughnut. I feel Huia's dark eyes turn to me.

Jack wipes his daughter's face again and takes her hand. “Let's have a look for morels, bubba.”

“But—”

“Just a quick look. I thought I saw a patch over there.”

He leads her off towards the closest cedar. She lets go of his hand and skips over the gnarly roots.

Summer leans towards me. “I'm really sorry,” she says, in that voice I've grown used to hearing. Pained, sympathetic, sad. I see her now, at the funeral. Long hair under a hat, eyes pink from crying.

“You were at the funeral.”

She nods. “I should have said that I knew him . . . when I saw you the other day.”

I glance in the direction of the sea. “He loved it out there,” I mumble.

Summer looks that way too, as though we can see the water, though we can't. “He did,” she says, her voice gentle.

I look at the doughnut in my hand. Split in half and broken, so it looks like a crescent moon. Like a C.

*  *  *

As the day slinks into evening I run a brush through my hair, while Bella and Papa talk outside the cabin. Papa is wearing brown pants, a pressed shirt, and leather shoes. The gold chain of the Saint Christopher medallion he always wears around his neck winks above the shirt's top button. Bella has uncovered a dress from somewhere, probably the trunk of her scuffed-up car, which I imagine contains a whole closet in a jumbled heap. The dress is
long, the fabric covered with tiny butterflies in myriad colors. She has gold hoops in her ears and is wearing lip gloss. She's holding a bottle of prosecco. Papa carries a jute shopping bag with bottles of Italian red wine inside. From the window I watch them laughing together. It feels as though I'm watching a film.

Whenever Papa spoke to me of Bella I stopped listening. In the end he stopped telling me when she'd called and stopped begging for me to speak to her. I didn't care if the whole family thought I was stubborn. I preferred to pretend my sister had disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Like a magic trick.

I pull the brush through my hair in long, slow strokes. When we were small, after Mama died, Bella and I used to sit in front of the television and I would brush her hair and braid it. Her hair, wild and curly, was always full of knots. I would lay the palm of my hand against her scalp and brush gently so it didn't tug. The curls unraveled to fine fuzz, like candy floss, that stuck up around her head in a halo. She liked it best when I braided it into a kind of crown that looped at the front. I'd sit with the hairpins in my mouth, humming, while Bella sucked her thumb and Papa heated a frozen dinner one of the aunties had dropped off. After everything—the funeral, the unavoidable shadows Mama had left all over the house—it was a kind of peace. A relief.

I glance at my reflection in the warping window glass, use it to push earrings into my ears. Round, rose-gold studs, like minuscule buttons, that Zia Rosa gave me for my eighteenth birthday. I scowl at the dim reflection. It's ridiculous to be dressing up. It's ridiculous to be going out to dinner. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my cheeks hang as though I'm ten years older. I lick my pale
lips. Trust Bella to have arranged a dinner date. She can't make it to a funeral but she can get herself invited to dinner within minutes of being in a place. Resentment pricks and scalds like heartburn.