PART TWO
Insalata
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.
Five
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.
He and her other brother, Rob, took the train early this morning. They were going to something called Basic Training, and who knew when she’d see them again?
She soared high enough to see the empty beach beyond the lavish gardens and then low enough to skim the soft, perfectly groomed carpet of grass. The sky was bluer than heaven, like Mamma used to say. In the garden below, the button-eyed daisies and fancy purple lobelias were reflected in the surface of the pond. Seagulls flew like flashing white kites over the breakers on the beach, and Rosa felt all the fluttery excitement of freedom.
Summer was here. Finally, endless days out from under the glare of Sister Baptista, whose stare was so sharp she could make you squirm like a bug on a pin.
The little seaside town of Winslow changed in the summer. The pace picked up, and people drove along the coast road in convertibles with the tops down. Pop would comment that the price of gas and groceries went sky-high and that it was impossible to get a table at Mario’s Flying Pizza on a Friday night, even though Rosa and Pop always got a table, because Mario was Mamma’s cousin.
Rosa came in for a landing, aiming her bare foot for the crotch of the tree. Her foot struck something dry and papery that collapsed when she touched it. A humming noise mingled with the rustle of the breeze through the leaves. Then Rosa’s foot burst into flame.
A second later, she saw a black cloud rise from the tree, and the faint humming sound changed to a roar. A truly angry roar.
She didn’t remember getting down from the tree, but later she would discover livid rope burns on the insides of her knees, along with a colorful variety of scratches and bruises. She hit the ground running, howling at the tops of her lungs, then stabbing the air with a separate shriek each time she felt another sting.
She headed straight for the pond with its burbling fountain.
Rosa took a flying leap for the clear, calm water. She couldn’t help herself. She was on fire. It was an emergency.
The cool water brought relief as she submerged herself. The places she’d been stung were instantly soothed by the silky mud on the bottom. She broke the surface and saw a few bees still hovering around, so she sat in the shallow water, waving her arms and legs, stirring up brown clouds. She didn’t know how long she sat there, letting the mud cool the stings. She could detect six of them, maybe more, mostly on her legs.
“What in heaven’s holy name is going on?” demanded a sharp voice. A woman rushed out of the house and down the back stairs.
Rosa almost didn’t recognize Mrs. Carmichael in her starched housekeeper’s uniform. The Carmichaels lived down the street from the Capolettis, and usually Rosa only saw her in her housedress and slippers, standing on the porch and calling her boys in to dinner. Everything was different in this neighborhood of big houses overlooking the sea. Everything was cleaner and neater, even the people.
Except Rosa herself. As she slogged to the edge of the pond, feeling the smooth mud squish between her toes, she knew with every cell in her body that she didn’t belong here. Muddy and barefoot, soaked to the skin, bee-stung and bruised, she belonged anywhere but here.
She waited, dripping on the lawn as Mrs. Carmichael bustled toward her. “I can explain—”
“What are we going to do with you, Rosa Capoletti?” Mrs. Carmichael demanded. She was on the verge of being mad, but she was holding her temper back. Rosa could tell. People tried to be extra patient with her, on account of her mother had died on Valentine’s Day. Even Sister Baptista tried to be a little nicer.
“I can get cleaned off