Chapter 15: The Oven Mitts

Teresa called on a Tuesday in early August, and her voice was as warm as it had been when I was twelve.

"Gianna, my darling, come to lunch on Sunday. I'll make the braciole. I've missed you so much I can't sleep."

I held the phone and looked across the library at Federico.

He shook his head once.

I nodded.

"I'll come," I told her.

When I hung up, he was already on his feet.

"No," he said.

"Ruggeri's dinner is in three weeks, and she'll be sitting at it. If I stop answering her, she'll know."

"She put something in your glass."

"I'll bring my own water."

"I'll sit outside in the car."

"Then do that," I said. "And Paola comes in with me."

Paola didn't wait to be asked.

On Sunday the Sabatini kitchen smelled of onions and warm bread.

Nothing was different.

The yellow curtains hung over the sink, and the table was set for three.

My oven mitts hung on the hook beside the stove.

I had sewn them in home economics when I was thirteen, quilted blue with my initials in the corner.

Teresa had never once let me throw them out.

She came at me across the floor with her arms open and pulled me in.

I let her.

Against my cheek her cross was warm from her skin.

"Look at you," she said, and put both hands on my belly. "Eight months. A boy, I can tell by how you carry."

"The doctor won't say."

"I know. I know." She pressed my face between her hands. "Sit, sit."

I sat, and I set a sealed bottle of water on the table in front of me.

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