Invitation to Italian. Tracy Kelleher

class meets every Wednesday at seven-thirty for an hour and a half? What if I’m in the middle of a delivery?”

      “Then you’ll deal with that when it happens, won’t you? Besides, I doubt all babies are born on Wednesday evenings. And before you offer any more excuses, may I just point out to you how adept you were at explaining to me about Turkey Work. Clearly, you are someone who shines in a classroom scenario, whether as teacher or pupil.” Iris tucked her glasses into the side of her bag and gathered up her work.

      Julie scrambled to stand up, too. “But I’m not registered.”

      “Don’t worry. I’ve already registered you and paid the fee. You may write a check to me and include it in the note that you will be sending me. Oh, in case you were wondering, the Adult School has a strict policy of taking attendance. And needless to say, in my capacity as head of the Adult School board, I’m always there for the first week of the semester.” Iris slipped on a pair of gloves and carefully smoothed the kidskin leather down each finger. “By the way, I recommend a generous application of powder to cover that bruise on your cheek.”

      It would have been simpler just to wear a paper bag over her head. And I hope the good doctor realizes how much I am sacrificing, Julie couldn’t help thinking.

      Unfortunately, when it came to Sebastiano Fonterra, that wasn’t the only thing that Julie couldn’t help thinking.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      KATARINA LOOKED UP from washing the pots and pans from dinner. Only the day before yesterday her mother— Zora—had dropped back into her life after one of her periodic absences. One of those absences had included not coming back from Antarctica after Katarina had been shot in a robbery at an ATM in Oakland. In fairness, Katarina had insisted she was fine, but still…? And while Zora had made it to Katarina’s wedding, she had scheduled her departing flight in the middle of the reception. They’d barely had time to exchange pleasantries.

      Needless to say, when Radko was born Katarina hadn’t even bothered to invite her mother back to Grantham to celebrate the event. Instead, she’d sent an email with all the relevant information. Her mother had mailed a little hooded sweater she’d knitted from genuine yak’s wool from a trek she’d made in Mongolia on some sponsored research grant. Unfortunately, the oils in the yarn seemed to irritate the baby’s tender skin.

      Nevertheless, Katarina still harbored a sentimental notion of family. That’s why she had made dinner and invited her mother to meet her husband, Ben, her stepson, Matt, and, of course, to get better acquainted with Zora’s new grandson Rad. She should have known it was a mistake.

      Rad had a slight fever and was cranky. She’d kept him up until her mother had arrived late—something about having to check the tire pressure on the pickup truck she’d rented and not being able to find a gas station with a free air pump. Who rented a pickup truck anyway? Katarina had wondered. In the end, then, her mother barely managed a pat on the baby’s bald head before Katarina put him to bed.

      Perhaps Matt should have gone to bed early, too. He’d been a monosyllabic teenager over the dinner of lamb stew while Zora grilled him about a physics course. What could you expect of a teenager, overstressed from waiting to hear about college acceptances? Katarina asked herself.

      But thank God for Ben. For a man who professed not to be a people person, he’d had the inspired idea to ask Zora about her work—something she had no trouble discussing, especially since Ben made sure the wineglasses were full.

      Katarina wiped down the tile countertop and put away the dishcloth. She had tried to create a “normal” family with Ben and Matt and Rad, and of course, Babika, and her life really was good. She had nothing to complain about, she told herself regularly. But still, that hadn’t prevented her from feeling an emotional hole in her being.

      Julie sometimes complained about her mother and father—and her scary grandmother—micromanaging her life. Katarina often wished she could voice the same complaint. She had never even known her father, nor had anyone else. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure if her mother knew, having led what she referred to as “a liberated existence.” And except for the summers in Grantham with Babika, she had never called any place home. They had moved incessantly, as her mother pursued college, then graduate school in geology, then field studies, post-docs, and appointments at a government lab here, a university there. When Katarina had broken her elbow horsing around on the high dive board at Grantham Community Swimming Pool, Babika was the one she had called. When she’d broken up with her boyfriend in college, she’d known not to bother her mother but to call Babika, who had consoled her, telling her there were bigger fish to broil—she never could get her American sayings straight.

      But tonight when she needed her most, where was her grandmother?

      “Wanda and I are catching a quick bite at the Chinese restaurant around the corner before we go to our tai chi class at the Adult School,” she had said, begging off. “We can’t possibly be late to the first class. Besides, you two have a lot of catching up to do. You don’t need me.”

      Katarina was thirty-three years old, and she wasn’t too proud to say she needed her grandmother, especially when it came to dealing with the mother she never really knew and certainly didn’t understand.

      She heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

      “Oh, there you are,” her mother said blithely as she entered the room. “I didn’t expect to find you here—the little woman in the kitchen.”

      Katarina tried not to be riled by her mother’s barb. She affixed a smile. “You’re going so soon, Mom?” She saw her mother scowl. “Sorry, I mean, Zora. You’re leaving already?” Zora had on a windbreaker. A small knapsack was slung over one shoulder.

      “Yes, well, the dinner was lovely.”

      “I’m sorry the potatoes were a little undercooked.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never even mastered making scrambled eggs. You can imagine my mother’s dismay.” Zora paused. “Anyway, I decided as long as I was back in Grantham for a while that I’d keep myself busy. I saw a pamphlet on the sideboard from the Adult School and noticed an entry for an Italian conversation class. It’s been years since I did field work at Vesuvius, and it’s time for a language refresher, especially since I’ll be giving a lecture at the University of Naples later this fall. I think I may have mentioned my plans to you?”

      Katarina picked up the dishrag again and began wiping down the counter tiles that were perfectly clean already. “I can’t say that I remember you doing that.”

      Zora awkwardly patted her daughter’s upper arm. “We’ll have other evenings, and the first class meets tonight. Luckily when I called, they still had a spot.” She fished her keys out of a side pocket of her backpack. The toggle from the rental agency hung from her hand. “I don’t want to be late then.”

      Katarina realized her mother had small, almost childlike hands. But then, she was small in stature, a good three or four inches shorter than she. Strange. She had this memory of her mother being taller.

      Katarina sighed. “Yes, it wouldn’t be good to be late to class. I’ll let Ben know you had to leave.” He had left earlier to take Matt back to school to work on editing the school newspaper.

      “Thank you. He’s a lovely man. You’ve done quite well for yourself. Ben, Matt, the baby. This house. I’m glad to see you’re settled so nicely.” She squeezed out a smile.

      “Settled so nicely. That’s a funny expression coming from you,” Katarina said. Then because she didn’t want to pick a fight, she leaned in and gave her mother a quick